The Suspects in the Suite
by bluemuriel
Summary: Brennan and Booth are caught off guard when they go to interview a pair of suspects. They are held captive, and must deal with lasting repercussions. Will their partnership survive? Caution: contains sexual assault.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning **-- This story contains mature themes and sexual assault. If you find such content objectionable, or if you are underage, please do not read further.

**A/N: **The idea for this story would not let me go, so I had to write it. It was simply one of the most angst-ridden and dark stories I could think of. And I like dark.

I have tried to be as thoughtful and sincere as possible in my treatment of the topic. For a brief exploration of some issues, please see my note attached to Chapter 4.

******

The inn where the possible suspects were lodging was about ten miles out of town. Booth and Brennan drove through the large tract of land, gazing at the detached mansion-style rooms for rent.

"If this guy Anders isn't our murderer/smuggler," Booth said, "I sure want to know where he gets his money."

"He was very good at eluding your questions when we interviewed him in your office last week," Brennan commented.

Booth gave her an offended look. "Stocks, trading, unnamed business associates--that's the kind of crap they all say, when they really get their money from illicit activities."

They checked in at the main office, and a uniformed employee took them across the manicured grounds to the appropriate building. Inside, the partners climbed a flight of stairs leading to the suite's entrance. "That concierge called the room anyway," Brennan pointed out, "even though you told him not to bother."

"So they know we're coming," Booth agreed. "And have time to hide their bags of drugs under the floorboards, except that these guys are probably smarter than to have the whole stash on them."

They found a long hallway at the top of the stairs, and a security guard posted near the closed door. Booth gave him a quickly analyzing look. Generic uniform, well-muscled, nondescript features. The man must be some private contractor, ex-military, maybe. Like a mercenary.

"Do all your guests bring their own security?" Booth asked.

The concierge assistant paused before heading back to the main building. "Not many of them, no," he said. "We don't have a specific policy regarding the matter, but we assure everyone that our own security precautions are more than adequate."

"Of course you do," Booth said under his breath, and turned toward the suite's entrance.

He and Brennan entered the well-appointed room and were met by Anders, looking just as cool and collected as he had at the FBI offices. About forty-five or fifty, he was relatively fit, with a medium build and close-cropped, slightly balding hair.

He introduced his assistant, Rawling, whom the partners had not met before. Also a security type, Booth noted, he looked like the stereotypical tough-guy thug, but might also be Anders' friend or co-conspirator.

Booth surveyed the room as he and Brennan made the initial inquiries about Anders' connection to the victim. This large rectangular room had windows on the opposite wall, a small kitchen, heavy dining table, and near the center, a decorative support post from floor to ceiling. Left of the entry was a corner housing a mahogany desk, and along the wall were bookshelves, a fireplace, and a door, probably leading to a bedroom.

Anders remained polite and smooth, seemingly unworried. He invited the partners to sit in chairs across from the desk. He took a seat behind it, with his security guy standing by the bookshelves.

He likes being in control, Booth thought. This is like a board meeting with him as the head honcho.

But he was still playing dumb. "I don't know what you're implying, Agent Booth."

"Come on, Anders, you're a smart guy. I don't have to tell you how it went down. This woman's working as your assistant. But she's not supposed to know everything about your business, is she? Maybe she's sleeping with you too, willingly or otherwise. But she gets too close to some vital information you need to keep secret."

"As I already told you and your fellow FBI, I can allow access to the bookkeeping and provide business receipts that demonstrate the legality of…" Anders opened a desk drawer and shuffled some papers.

"No, no," Booth waved away the papers. "We don't need more documents. We need to cut the crap, Anders. What we need," he leaned forward in his chair, "are answers. _Real _answers, like why, for the day of the murder, the alibi you gave, the person you were supposedly with, is actually a fake name." He paused for effect. "Maybe your alibi's fake too."

Anders was finally at a loss for his cool, evasive words. He leaned back a little in his chair, glanced at Rawling, and sighed as if catching his breath.

Without warning, the security guy took two steps forward, pulling a gun from--where?--and aimed it at Brennan's head.

Booth instinctively started out of his chair to reach for his own gun, but Anders made a warning sound, and Booth saw that he had also produced a gun from his drawer. He set it on the desk with his hand lightly covering it, pointed toward them.

Booth forced his muscles to relax, to stay in his chair and not pose a threat. Damn Anders. That second gun greatly reduced their chances of fighting back without getting hurt. It's no use, Booth thought, starting a gun standoff. Bones doesn't have a weapon--as she's always complaining--and there's one pointed right at her head.

Booth could tell that she too wanted to jump out of her seat, but was staying still out of necessity. Her eyes had widened with alarm, but he bet she was feeling the same anger he was, plus the ironic satisfaction that their suspicions were correct.

The man, Rawling, cocked the gun with his thumb, bringing it within a few inches of Bones' forehead. Booth heard the click of a bullet loading into the chamber.

The victim, he had time to think, took a gunshot to the forehead. The frontal bone, as Brennan would prefer.

"I'm sorry," Anders said, in that same maddeningly calm voice. "I'm sure you'll understand. You're right, I admit it. About the overall plan, if not the specifics. But we can't let you ruin our travel arrangements for today. You just barged in, without much warning. Luckily, we had a scenario for your possible visit… And all we need to do is delay you here for a while."

Booth glanced at Brennan again, trying to calculate risk. What else did Anders have up his sleeve?

"Both of you stand up, if you please. Slowly." The security guy backed up a step to let them.

As they began to stand, Booth saw Brennan tense up. He knew before she did it that she was shifting into a karate stance, weight balanced for a kick, hands prepared to strike. She was going to knock the gun out of the guy's hand, knowing Booth would back her up, would take the opportunity to get the upper hand, get the guns and call for backup. Booth knew she could probably disarm Rawling; he'd seen her kick the butts of other tough guys, but the odds--two guns--were against them.

"Bones, don't move," Booth said out of the corner of his mouth.

It startled her, made her angry. She froze, shooting him a repressed glance that demanded, Why? For the first time he saw a hint of real fear on her face: the fact that he was being cautious. The wheels were probably turning in her head right now, coming to the same conclusions he had. Playing it safe might be the ego-bruising way, but in this situation it was the best way. Even though these guys didn't come across as murderers, Booth judged, at least not in the impulse-killing way, they did want to abscond with their smuggling operation. The victim was killed for knowing as much.

After the partners rose carefully to their feet, Anders came around the desk with his weapon, talking in that irritatingly smug way. "I'm very good at making plans that are hard to trace," he was saying. Then casually, as though musing aloud, "It might be best to kill you, so you can't report back to the FBI…"

"You think you'd be able to get away with that?" Booth spat. "Killing an FBI agent and a famous writer-scientist? We can track you down, no matter how smart you think you are."

Anders chose to ignore that, and ordered them to empty their pockets. Reluctantly, they complied, turning out cell phones and keys, and plunking them on the broad wooden desk. Then Anders searched Booth, after sliding the safety on his own gun and tucking it in his belt. The impassive Rawling kept the muzzle of his weapon trained on Brennan. Anders patted Booth down and relieved him of his gun and a pair of handcuffs, both hidden under his jacket.

The chain of the handcuffs made a jangling sound as Anders held them up. "Well, well. Official law enforcement handcuffs. Why don't we give them a try."

He pulled Booth's arms behind his back, with a glance at Rawling, who kept his arm extended, the gun barrel intimately close to Brennan's head. Anders force-marched Booth over to the decorative ceiling support, and started to secure his hands around the post.

"You should know that sound doesn't carry well in here," Anders grunted, struggling a little to get Booth's hands behind the post. Booth grimaced as his shoulders stretched back. He wouldn't seriously resist, given the threat to Bones, but he wouldn't cooperate either.

"Therefore, it would be pointless to call for help," Anders continued, "and even the sound of gunshots wouldn't carry very far." So, thought Booth, if we fight back, or are killed, nobody's going to raise an alarm. The cool metal handcuffs pinched his wrists. "The walls are thick," Anders grinned as he clicked the cuff mechanism into place, "the buildings are separated by spacious lawns, and the security guy posted in the hallway answers to me."

Immobilized with my own cuffs, Booth thought with disgust. The anger and anxiety beat harder in his veins, and Brennan's expression, directed at him from behind a gun barrel, said clearly, 'Damn it, Booth, how did we get into this?'

Once Booth was handcuffed, Anders went back over to Brennan, tilting his head at the security guy. Rawling transferred the weapon to aim at Booth, taking a few steps closer to enforce the threat.

"Your turn to be searched, honey," Anders said to her. "And this is going to be a lot more enjoyable than the first one." His tone made Booth's skin crawl. He should have expected this. He remembered the interview at FBI headquarters: the way this guy looked at Brennan. Anders didn't 'search' -- he groped her, sliding his hands down her sides, squeezing her breasts along the way. Bones gritted her teeth and made a muffled grunt of protest.

This, Booth knew, could be the danger zone where she would chance fighting back. She didn't stand for people touching her--and neither did he--but now he was the one with a gun pointed at him. Anders was a bastard, but he was a perceptive one -- threatening one of them to ensure the other's cooperation.

Anders' hands stroked along her hips and buttocks, then down her legs. "Too bad, no more weapons, eh?"

Warning Brennan to stay perfectly still, with Rawling guarding Booth, Anders retrieved some type of rope out of the desk. The loops were relatively thin and strong, probably for rock climbing. Anders tied Brennan's hands in front of her, watching her face while he tightened the rope around her wrists with a jerk. Then he pulled her past Booth to the heavy table by the kitchen alcove, and secured the rope to a strut under the corner of the table.

"All right," Anders dusted off his hands and turned to Rawling. "I'd say we have, what, thirty minutes before we should leave for…our travel plans?" Rawling grunted acknowledgement. "We just have few things to arrange before that," Anders continued, "so…you all stay here, and I'll see to the packing."

He went back to the desk and checked the drawer's contents, while Rawling seemed to settle into sentry mode. He managed to look both dour and self-satisfied, standing with feet apart, gun held under his crossed arms -- not pointed at them, but clearly still a warning.

Anders moved around the suite for about ten minutes, disappearing for a short time into the adjoining room, and coming out with several small pieces of luggage, which he set on the desk and coffee table.

Booth tried to catch Brennan's eye again. She had been surreptitiously picking at the knotted rope under the table; Anders must not have tied it very well. Ok, Bones, he thought, good plan, but then what? Did she mean to get free as soon as they left, or fight them before they left? And what did Anders do with that second gun?

He struggled at his own bonds, although he knew it was useless. The metal cuffs chafed his wrists. Too bad I don't have some James Bond cufflinks with lock picks embedded in them…

After a nod from Anders, Rawling left then unattended for a few moments, presumably to collect his own belongings from the next room.

"Bones," Booth whispered. "Can you get free? Maybe we should just wait it out."

As she was about to respond, Anders returned. He carried a small box over to the desk where he'd made them leave their things, and dropped the cell phones, keys, and Booth's gun into it.

"You can get these back at some point," he said. "I'm not an unreasonable guy, and besides, what would I do with them? They'd just be used to trace me, right, FBI?"

Booth tried to think of a witty retort, and failed. Letting the suspects get away, being helplessly tied up--as maddening as this was, as humiliating as it would be to report, it could be worse. But, Booth reminded himself, as Anders sauntered back over to them, don't speak too soon.

The preparations to leave were apparently complete. Rawling resumed his sentry position halfway between the partners. As Anders approached, he looked… Booth had a bad feeling about this. The guy looked like he was anticipating something.

"All right, before we say goodbye," Anders announced, "there's just one more item of business to attend to. Or, in this case," he turned toward Brennan, "I should say, pleasure before business." His eyes swept over her. He leered. Before now, Booth would not have seen a leer outside of some novel he'd never read, but it applied to Anders. Bastard.

He moved toward her, reaching to untie the rope from the table. Rawling, momentarily forgetting to threaten anyone with his gun, moved a little closer too.

Just close enough. Booth aimed a kick at him, stretching himself as far away from the post as possible. Rawling dodged at the last moment, but Booth's foot still connected with the top of his shin. Brennan took that moment to pivot and kick at Anders, but somehow he too avoided a serious blow. Rawling grunted in surprise, but immediately retaliated: he punched Booth in the gut. Bones cried out in protest as he doubled over, gasping for air. Even though he had the sense to tighten his muscles just before the hit, he admitted Rawling had a solid fist.

Hunched over, Booth squinted up to see Rawling, again with his gun pointed right at Bones. Everyone froze for a second, not sure of their next move. Brennan looked breathless and ready to keep fighting, half-free of the table, with a loose end of rope trailing from her wrists.

Anders swore softly, then walked over to one of the bags on the coffee table and rummaged in it. "I see you're going to need a little more subduing," he said to Booth, "before we have some fun with your partner." He grinned briefly, and returned to Booth with something hidden in his hand.

"What is that?" Brennan demanded.

Without preamble, Anders raised his hand and jabbed Booth in the arm--with a small needle and syringe. Booth grunted and Brennan yelled, "What are you doing? What did you inject him with?" She gave the rope a hard jerk, and more of it pulled free of the table. Booth kicked out again, and almost caught Anders behind the knee, to knock him over. Rawling swung the gun between the partners, looking like he wanted to shoot--or punch--one of them but couldn't decide who.

Anders grimaced and made an abrupt gesture from Rawling to Booth. The security guy promptly lowered his gun, only to belt Booth in the belly again.

"Stop!" Brennan cried.

"You see how it works," Anders said calmly, while Booth wheezed. "One more move," he pointed the little syringe at Bones, "and you get the same as him, or…" He shrugged, as though they were bringing this on themselves. "We let Rawling do his thing. Either way, you'll both be sorry if you keep fighting back. We just want our operation to run smoothly."

Booth's arm tingled at the injection site, and his head was starting to feel heavy. Shit. What the hell did they give me? Am I going to pass out, or just end up in a daze? Unless it was some kind of burning nerve agent they want to torture me with.

Anders noticed Booth blinking and shaking his head, and commented carelessly, "Don't worry, it'll wear off at some point. Just to keep you more relaxed and less troublesome."

"I can't believe you." It was Brennan's voice, low and angry. "Giving him some sedative when he's already bound with handcuffs? Are you that afraid of him? You're like--" She settled on the appropriate label. "_You _are prime examples of _pseudo _alpha males, who exert power just for the sake of power."

Booth, still bent over his bruised abdomen, could hear her warming up to a Bones-logic-tirade. Even with the drug creating fog in his head, he knew this probably wasn't a good time for a strident anthropology lecture.

"You're like the handful of smaller and weaker orangutan males in a population," Bones ranted, "the ones who can't get what they want by legitimate social means. They can't get mates, so they resort to violence in a desperate attempt to get their DNA into the gene pool. But this power you think you're achieving isn't real power, because it's based on fear rather than any actual influence."

Her gray-blue eyes glared icily at the suspects, and that little inverted V had etched itself between her brows the way it did when she was angry or troubled. "Bones," Booth muttered when she paused for breath, "simmer down." He tried to check Anders' reaction, but the man seemed as cool as ever.

Brennan either didn't hear his warning or had chosen to ignore it. She was still going, although Booth caught even less of her meaning than he usually did. "A need for control," she was saying, "a crude, under-developed personality. And trying to prove alpha male dominance in the realm of illegal activities, through financial leverage and mercenary brute force--" she shook her head in disapproval, "it circumvents the entire societal structure, meaning it's completely unproductive, not to mention cowardly."

"Bones," he hissed. "Are you finished? Probably not the best time to be antagonizing them, ok?" He glanced at Anders. The man might have been impressed, but he seemed more amused than anything.

"Did she just insult us?" Rawling asked. Booth blinked more heavily, hoping that Rawling's expression was not what he thought it was -- a sort of eagerness. Being given an excuse to hurt.

"Yeah, I guess she did," Anders replied. "But she's half right." He approached her again, Rawling a step behind with brandished gun. "I'm going to exert my alpha male dominance right now. On you."

Booth breathed through his teeth, willing adrenaline to pump more strongly through his veins in order to--didn't he hear someone say this in Brennan's lab?--dispel some of the drug from his system. But he was still losing out to the dull darkness descending at the corners of his vision.

A scuffle ensued. Bones was hustled away, toward the other room. Booth tried to call to her, to struggle--something--but all of him was slow and weak. The door to the other room closed.

"Bones!" he yelled. "No, damn it! Bones!" He strained to hear something from behind the door, wanting to know and not wanting to. They can't take her. Not in there, with both of them. How did this happen? How did he let this happen? Now he could make out a voice through the door. Must be Anders. Guy talks too much. Probably making more threats. Sick demands.

Time passed. Booth couldn't be sure how much. Silence? Then--a slap. A small gasp of pain, from Brennan. Another scuffle, some thuds as if from furniture… Some harsh, muffled words… Bones cried out again: worse. Shock and pain. Booth was paralyzed by the sound, by the drug. Wrestled to get away, to fight. Other sounds. _No. _Brennan with a sob in her throat. A man's laugh.

More silence. It's over, Booth thought. Had he dozed off? Were the criminals gone? But where was Bones? She…was in the other room still. His wrists throbbed numbly in the handcuffs. The round post pressed between his shoulder blades.

More words mumbled through the thick door. Then, a fight. Muted blows, floorboards creaking, grunts of effort. Definitely Bones -- she's fighting, now. That's my girl, kick their ass, make them hurt… How long? Then, silence again. Who won? There were two of them against her…and two guns? Anders, Booth thought sluggishly, why…? He knows how to play us off each other, likes to keep us from resisting...

He swam in the anxious dark fog. He realized his eyes still worked. A narrow patch of light brightened a section of carpet in front of him. It angled through the curtains on the right-hand wall. The light's edge nearly touched the feet of the coffee table, a long bright rectangle. It lay between him and the door. Keeping him from getting to Bones. Like a chasm he could easily jump, if only his wrists weren't shackled, if his brain wasn't numb.

He blinked at the light, the shadow blocks around it. A lot of time seemed to have passed inside his head, but perhaps not outside. Now, his ears were functional again. A doorknob clicked and turned. People were back in the room. The two suspects. Bones!

They marched her back to the table at Booth's right. His senses shook off some of the drug, they zeroed in. She was hurt. Her hands were still tied, and she held her arms close to her body, walking carefully--like her legs were shaking, or she'd been punched in the gut like he was. That looked like a bruise on her cheekbone, and her lip was bleeding. She gave Booth one darting glance, then kept her eyes down. Her brown jacket was wrenched nearly off her shoulders, her white blouse crooked.

Booth forced his eyes to Anders, who was tying the rope to the table. He looked smug, while Rawling, still with his gun, looked--pissed off? And he had a bloody nose. Ha--way to go, Bones. I knew she'd land some good hits on him. But just get close enough, Booth thought. I'll kill you both, you bastards. I'll kick your balls up between your ears. And whatever you did, wherever you try to run, I'll find you and kill you.

Anders took forever to secure the rope, knotting it several times through the corner of the table. Brennan stood there offering no resistance. Her eyelashes were wet, although she wasn't crying now. She was--Booth didn't know. In shock? She'd had the chance to fight at least, but…there wasn't any fight in her now.

Anders was collecting their bags. He flipped open a cell phone, punched some keys, listened. He looked at the partners, said a few more things, laughed. Rawling shrugged. Booth seethed.

Then, finally, they were gone. Booth looked around, expecting them to reappear. They didn't. He remembered hearing the faint crunch of gravel from outside the window--a car pulling away from the drive? He must have lost some time again. That long bar of light on the floor had moved a few inches.

Bones was saying his name. "Are you all right," she was saying. Asking him to list the symptoms, to describe the sensations of the drug they gave him. Dizziness? No, he said. Metallic taste in the mouth? Uh, maybe. He tried to tell her about the fog in his head, the darkness.

Other questions. Science things. She searched through her knowledge, thinking aloud. She rattled off the names of several drugs, only one of which he recognized. Which substances were most likely, which choices she could discard.

She was frustrated; she couldn't make a diagnosis from here. She wanted access to lab things. He knew, in part, why she was doing this, taking refuge in science.

"It's wearing off," he assured her.

She had hardly met his eyes. "Bones," he said. "Are you okay?" What a question. But what else could he do?

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice sounded thin. "We have to get out of here."

She kneeled down to get a look at the knots holding her to the table. But she moved gingerly, wincing. She told Booth what kind of knots they were--some nautical or nature name, he didn't care. "Anders is a regular boy scout," he responded bitterly.

"There are several of them in a row. It's going to take a long time to undo," Bones reported.

"Well," he muttered, "what have we got but time."

"Maybe there's a faster way." Booth looked around. The suspects had taken their keys, their cell phones, and he didn't see a land line in the hotel room. "The window," Bones clarified. "There have to be gardeners and groundskeepers out there to maintain this land. If I can get over there and open it…"

"We can call for help out the window," he finished. "You're a genius, Bones. Except…" She was already answering his question. Bracing her feet, she tugged on the table she was tied to. The window was at the other end, so she would have to pull the table out and then rotate it back around toward the wall. The rope around her wrists had enough slack to allow her a few inches of movement, enough to stand or sit, to reach under the table or to grasp one of the legs, as she did now. Booth could tell the thing was heavy. It creaked but didn't want to budge.

Bones broke off, sucking in her breath.

"You are hurt, aren't you?" he accused. "You fought those guys…"

"Nothing's broken," she said through her teeth. Still, she was holding her side, and had to stand motionless for a few seconds. But she _would _move that table.

Slowly, painstakingly, she dragged it, scraping against the floor. Outward, toward Booth. Then around, the edges catching on the carpet where it met the tile of the kitchen alcove. Tugging, then pushing. Booth winced; the exertion was clearly taking a lot of willpower, to push through the pain of--whatever it was. And the rope was surely rubbing her wrists raw. But she kept going. Tossing her hair out of her eyes, drying her palms on the hem of her shirt, she wrestled the table back toward the window.

Finally, she got it close to the wall and stopped to rest. He could see that breathing harder was painful. Shit. Bones--what did they do?

"You don't, ah…" he started. "Don't have any broken ribs, do you?"

"No," she said. "I told you. If I did, it could have punctured a lung by now, and I'd be on the floor asphyxiating."

Right, he thought. Thanks for that image.

The window opened with a hand crank, set back on the sill. Brennan reached for it, but she was restricted by the rope, and could barely touch it with her fingertips. "What can you see out there?" he asked.

She peered around the curtain. "Not much. No sign of people, not much of the grounds. We're right over…the roof of something from the first floor. Most likely the garage."

Crap. So much for that idea. He tried to stay positive, for her benefit. "Ok, so you can go after the knots, then. It can't take any longer to undo those than it can for somebody to notice that we never came back from interviewing these suspects, right?"

"I don't know," she replied, kneeling again to work on the knots. "Zach and Hodgins aren't going to worry. They'll just think we're driving around like we always do, in your car, on another of these FBI wild goose chases."

"FBI wild goose chases?" he echoed, offended.

They argued for a while, about the observational powers of her squint squad, and the effectiveness of lab versus non-lab evidence. They speculated about when they might be reported missing, and what the suspects had done with their cell phones. Eventually they fell silent.

Brennan kept picking at sections of the rope, trying to get one loop free in order to start unraveling it…but she wasn't having much luck.

Booth still felt like dozing off. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, when he realized she had stopped pulling at the knots. She was half hidden behind the corner of the table now; he could only see her from the shoulders up. She rested her hands on the table's edge, staring at them palm up. Fingers curled into claws.

"What's the matter?"

"My flexor muscles are cramping. But…" She hesitated. "I don't want to risk destroying evidence."

"What?"

"I should have their DNA under my nails. I scratched Rawling with my right hand, and Anders with my left." She said it in the careful tone Booth recognized from the lab, when she would repeat things to keep them straight in her mind. "I don't want it to get scraped off." She glanced at Booth and then away.

"Bones…" he said helplessly. During the struggle, she had scratched them. Purposeful, organized, one hand for each criminal. "But," he said, searching for logic, "you can get DNA off people who've been dead for years. Or buried, or burned, or underwater… You and your lab people are the best there is. If there's evidence, we're getting it. We'll get every molecule of evidence from this room."

She sighed and nodded. "You're right, I know…We will." She resumed working at the knots.

After a time, Booth ventured, "They probably left a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, so no employees will come by. And what about the security man out in the hall?"

"Do you think he's still there? If he's smart, he'll have left with them, otherwise…"

"Otherwise he can still kill us?"

"Otherwise," Brennan corrected, "we can arrest him and use him to get information about the guy he works for."

"Hey!" Booth yelled toward the outside door. "Any security guys still out in the hall with guns?" Brennan spared him an exasperated look.

"No answer," he said. "Let's worry about him later. But I'm telling you, Bones, we're going to get a full team down here, FBI, forensics, everything. We'll grill these hotel people, for starters. They have to be held responsible too: why they rent their rooms to drug-smuggling, gun-toting criminals, and why they don't come check on two people being held hostage."

Booth kept talking, speculating in circles…to pass the time, to repress the drug as it slowly cycled out of his system. The patch of light crept further across the floor.

Bones plucked at the stubborn rope with a frown of concentration. Sunlight, slanting from the window behind her, glowed like a red-gold halo on her hair.

Booth shifted his weight, rolled his head around to stretch his neck. His shoulders were sore from being pulled backward for so long. The metal handcuffs dug into his wrists, and his feet hurt from standing for hours. His ab muscles were bruised from Rawling's fucking fist. And he had to pee.

But Bones had to be in worse shape. She was--he realized she was no longer working at the knots. Her head was bowed, so he couldn't see her face. Taking a break, he thought, to keep her fingers from cramping up. But…her hands rested on the table, her forehead touching them. He heard her take a ragged breath, and knew instantly that she was trying not to cry.

Those guys had--she had--he wouldn't think of it right now. It would make him too angry. Once they got out of here--then.

What the hell could he do?

He could see only her head and hands, and under the table, her knees on the carpet . The brown hues of her clothing blended into the room's shadowed furnishings. The only light things were the pale loops of rope, a hint of white blouse, and the golden aura on her hair.

"Bones," he said, with all the gentleness, realization, and regret that he couldn't express any other way. "Oh my god. I'm sorry."

She shook her head without looking up. "It's fine--I just..." Tears choked her voice.

"No, it's okay, it's…You know, in crisis situations, once adrenaline wears off, it leaves you weak. It…makes injuries hurt more."

"Don't be nice to me right now, Booth."

Shit, he thought. She didn't need tenderness from him now; she needed anger and firm resolve.

Before he could respond, she asked in a muffled voice, "Are you a scientist now--the effects of adrenaline?" Her face was still hidden by her arms, but she was making an effort to sound normal, light-hearted.

"That," he said, "is a compliment coming from you. But I'll tell you what, Bones. What I am is an FBI guy, who's really, really pissed off. And what we're going to do--I swear, we're going to get those sons of bitches--" He proceeded to swear, long and loudly, mixing legitimate law enforcement tactics with pure retribution. "Once we catch them, I'll have an FBI buddy hold them down so I can beat them up," Booth concluded. "Or I'll hold them down while you beat them up, and you can karate chop them and kick them in the crotch to your heart's content."

She actually laughed at that--his crudeness or inventiveness. It was a short and mirthless laugh, restricted by tender ribs, but he would take it.

Finally she raised her head, blotting her face on a sleeve. She met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "I thought they were going to kill you," she said, voice husky with tears. "Anders was so…" She looked away, trying to describe it. "Polite and…malicious." Booth nodded at that assessment. "I thought they were going to…do worse than they did. To you, or--" she took a breath. "When they actually left, I was so relieved, I couldn't…"

"I know, Bones," he murmured. "It's okay. We're both fine, we're alive, and we're getting out of here, sooner or later. But I'm kind of hoping it's sooner, because I _really _have to take a leak."

That earned him a half smile.

So, they did what they could. Booth watched Brennan take a couple of deep breaths, and resume working on the knots. The tears kept coming, though. She tried to ignore them, periodically wiping her eyes, sniffing, and dabbing her nose with her sleeve.

Booth clenched his teeth in sympathy. The body betraying what the mind won't admit. He must've heard that in some FBI training session. Sometimes 'mind over matter' doesn't work. Sometimes you have to let whatever it is roll through you, ride it out. Natural reaction after stress. Residual effects of trauma. He wanted to say this to Bones, but…it would be weird. Too much psychology, that squishy stuff she doesn't like, and doesn't need right now.

Booth realized he was staring past the fading patch of sunlight on the floor. Beyond it was the empty fireplace, where a metal poker hung from a hook. He pointed it out to Bones. "Wish I'd seen that little earlier," he said, picturing himself ramming it into different parts of Anders' anatomy.

Brennan's head came up. "Booth," she said. "Maybe I can use it to help undo these knots. I can't get my fingers into them, they're too tight--but something with a pointed end--" She was already on her feet, bracing herself to drag that table several more feet.

"See, Bones," he said triumphantly, "that's what I'm talking about. Us working together. Our symbiotic relationship." He flashed her his charming grin like it was old times. Never mind that he hadn't done a damn thing the whole time they'd been here… But Bones replied with her standard skeptical glance, and that was all right.

It took some maneuvering to get the tool into her hands: once she'd dragged her way close enough, she had to kick it from its hook by the mantel, then tilt it off the floor with her foot before she could grasp it. It was awkward to hold the poker so near the pointed end, but she managed to balance the body of it on her shoulder, to have better dexterity and control for disassembling the knots.

Booth offered words of encouragement as the rope loops gradually fell away. Finally, she pulled free of the table and stood up with a sigh of relief. She had only peeled one loop away from her wrist, wincing, before she shook her head and strode over to Booth.

"Are you still feeling the effects of the drug?" She peered intently at his face. "Your pupils are slightly dilated…" Then she touched his neck to check his heart rate. Rope still trailed from her other hand, and the skin of her wrists had been rubbed raw. She didn't meet his eyes, standing this close.

"Bones, I'm fine." He kept his voice gentle. "Maybe you could look for the keys to these handcuffs before giving me the full medical workup, okay?"

Anders had taken off with their keys and cell phones. Brennan would have to go back to the main building of the inn, to have them call the police, the FBI, their Jeffersonian colleagues… The possibility of the armed guard in the hallway delayed them a few moments--until Bones picked up the fire poker with a fierce glint in her eye. Booth wasn't going to stop her. Still, his heart pounded as she tested the doorknob. Amazingly, it was unlocked. Brennan pulled it swiftly open, the poker brandished in her other hand. The hallway was empty.

The partners exchanged a relieved glance. Brennan put the would-be weapon down, said, "I'll be right back, Booth," and disappeared down the stairs.

The hotel staff didn't find the cuff keys right away. When Brennan came back with several employees and a legitimate security guard, everyone milled around in consternation, making phone calls, blurting into walkie-talkies. The partners took out some of their frustration by issuing orders to the appalled staff, telling them what phone numbers to call, who exactly to notify, and to not touch anything in the suite of rooms.

Then a breathless, uniformed kid appeared, with the box containing their things. Anders, considerate bastard that he was, had left it in one of the storage lockers in the main building. Bones seized the box, fished out the keys, and with a few clicks, Booth was free of the handcuffs. Massaging his wrists, he cast around for the nearest bathroom. Bones saw him glance toward the adjoining room. "Not here," she said. "There…might be evidence to collect." Booth stared for a moment, frowning. Of course, he knew that. What sort of evidence, he didn't want to know. He hurried outside and down the hall.

When he returned, Bones was on her cell phone, giving the location of the inn. "Yes, off Plainview." She looked up, and handed him his phone. "Booth will have the FBI come out too." He took it, nodding. "No, Cam…we're fine," Bones said. "That's right… Angela?" As Booth dialed a number, he pictured Angela snatching the receiver, and heard her voice, tinny and shrill, through Brennan's phone. "Sweetie? What the hell is going on?"

The local police arrived first. Booth picked out the officer in charge and consulted with him about their first steps. Maybe 'consulted' was the wrong word, Booth admitted. He took charge of investigation, rapping out orders. First, they should get the security footage from the inn. Try to identify the car the suspects drove off in, ideally its plate numbers. Then they had to access nearby highway toll cameras for glimpses of the vehicle. And get Anders' credit card information from the hotel staff, along with whatever other fake facts he'd given them.

Not far into these plans, Bones tapped him on the arm and murmured, "Booth, you're being very bossy."

The police officers grouped in the center of the suite had been nodding at Booth's announcements, making notes on pads, and peeling off in ones and twos to implement the strategy. The police chief, however, was looking irritable, the way Hodgins did when someone beat him to the conclusion he was about to announce. Booth did not care. "You're damn right I'm going to be bossy," he muttered, "when me and my partner have just been tied up and held at gun point for six hours."

"It's _my partner and I_," Bones corrected. Before Booth could look exasperated--the scientist was correcting his grammar now?--she turned to a policeman with more ideas for the investigation. There was no way to tell what type of travel the criminals had planned, but, she suggested, officers could begin by contacting all the major airlines, and for that matter, ships and trains, to distribute Rawling's and Anders' physical descriptions.

Because the police wanted an initial record of events, the partners decided to give their statements right away, rather than wait for the FBI's arrival. Booth realized they would have to be repeating the details many times before this was resolved.

Brennan's statement took longer than his. She and the officers spent several minutes in the adjoining bedroom…telling them what went on there. What Booth could only imagine based on fragments of sound. He glanced up from a quick conference with the police chief and hotel manager to see Bones through the open door. She was gesturing at a solid wooden table along the right wall, and her face was tightly expressionless. Booth suddenly visualized someone shoving her up against it, and--At that moment Bones glanced up and met his eyes, and he looked hastily away.

A short time later Booth turned around as Cam and Angela burst in, closely followed by black-clad officers from the Bureau.

Angela managed to look both relieved and upset. "We were so worried!" she exclaimed. "I was about to go ransack your apartment for clues." Brennan had completed her statement and was back in the center of the suite, with Booth and the small knot of officers.

"Sweetie! What happened?" Angela came forward with her arms held out, but stopped short of hugging anyone.

Cam too noted the partners' disheveled and bruised appearance. She surveyed the room milling with police and hotel personnel. "First things first," she said firmly. "Do either of you need medical attention?"

They answered at the same time. "Bones needs to get checked out," and "Booth should get a tox screen as soon as possible."

"Whoa." Cam held up a hand. "One at a time."

"They injected him," Brennan explained, "with some sort of depressant. We have to identify it before it wears off, and make sure there aren't any serious side effects."

Cam nodded. "And you…?" Her dark eyes went over Brennan's bruised lip and cheekbone.

"They…" Booth cleared his throat. "Roughed her up pretty badly. In the other room. I didn't see it," he trailed off. "Probably kicked in the ribs…"

Cam reached out to touch Brennan's arm. "One of us can take you right now, make sure you're okay."

"I'd like to oversee the forensics here." Bones nodded toward the FBI team, now mingling with the police, asking questions, starting to take equipment of out boxes and snap on latex gloves.

"Bones…" Booth started. He wasn't sure how strongly to object, to insist she get checked at a hospital, now. He'd had his turn to boss people in his field of expertise, and he supposed it was only fair that she get to do the same. It was comforting, after what they'd been through. Satisfying.

Bones glanced between him and Cam. She said, "I'm not going until Booth does." They all started to protest, but Brennan went on. "You were injected with some unknown toxin!" Her voice rose in pitch the way it did when she was trying to make a point. "And," she turned to Cam, "he was punched in the solar plexus, twice, quite hard."

Camille eyed them. "You do make quite a pair, don't you?" She sighed. "All right. Fifteen minutes. Do what you need to do here, efficiently, and then we leave. I'm driving."

An agent had come up to Booth and asked his advice on a document they'd found. As he squinted at it, Angela took a step closer to Brennan. Booth realized she hadn't said much this whole time, just watched him and Bones.

"Before you go to annoy the forensics team…are you sure you're okay?"

Rather than answering, Brennan looked at her nails, fingers curled. "I do have evidence on me that should be collected," she said steadily.

"Oh my god," Angela breathed. Cam frowned.

Brennan was not one to skirt the truth or avoid using clinically appropriate terms, but she didn't say anything about what had happened in the other room. Evidently, Angela and Cam, through their mysterious female psychic powers, could deduce the gist of it anyway.

Booth had not absorbed anything from the paper he held in his hand. Someone behind him called his name, and mercifully, he had an excuse to move away…before anyone starting using those clinically appropriate terms, like sexual assault, like rape kit.

As they were trying to wrap up some details so he could leave, Booth lost track of Brennan for a time. She had gotten her chance to be bossy, inserting herself among the forensic team as they sorted papers, dusted for fingerprints, and sprayed various chemicals onto surfaces.

Now Booth was listening to half of a phone conversation: Agent Fleming on his cell with the agents trying to track down the criminal's travel plans. He glanced across the room to find Brennan with Angela and Cam, near a bench in the corner by the entry. Angela had been sitting next to Bones, but got up so Cam could take her place. Angela started to call someone on her cell phone--maybe Hodgins or their other colleagues, Booth guessed; or else Brennan's brother, to alert him to the situation and reassure him things were all right. Booth had asked her to call Rebecca and do the same, but not to tell, or at least not frighten, Parker.

Keeping one ear on the FBI developments, Booth watched Cam sit down by Brennan and pull on latex gloves. She withdrew some vials from a small medical kit, then gently reached for Brennan's hands. She was, Booth realized, collecting the scrapings from under her nails. They must have decided to do this in advance, rather than wait for the complete hospital procedure. Bones had been overly worried about this one detail, ever since she had started undoing the rope. Booth surmised it would make her feel better, and Cam must have realized the same thing.

Dr. Saroyan had declared fifteen minutes, but it ended up being closer to a half hour before they left. A jurisdictional argument had sprung up between the local PD and the Feds, which Booth got caught in. Cam, her former-cop instincts coming to the fore, waded in as well. Booth was grateful for the authoritative- diplomat skills she now used, to keep the dispute from turning into a real argument. "Gentlemen, please!" she said, over the noise of several people talking at once. "We're all on the same side here. Catching the bad guy. Let's try to remember that."

Minutes later, Booth was exchanging phone numbers with some of the officers, when Cam pulled him aside. "Time to go," she said. "They can handle the rest of this on their own. We've done enough."

"Yeah," Booth said, scribbling on the back of someone's business card. "Fleming!" he yelled across the room. "You call me. As soon as you know anything."

He turned back as Camille tugged his arm and spoke in a lowered voice. "Brennan looks exhausted, and in pain, and probably in need of a long, hot shower."

Booth looked guiltily over at the bench where the two women were sitting, shadowed by the leaves of a tall potted plant. Brennan was leaning forward with her face in her hands, and Angela rested one arm lightly around her friend's shoulders. Her other hand held a melting ice pack someone had fetched for Brennan's bruises.

Bones was a fighter, Booth knew. She had kept going this whole time. Fighting the bad guys, getting both of them out of their bonds, with knot-picking and table-dragging, then having to stick around the scene of the crime, talking to police, giving advice to forensics…She had finally run out of energy.

"You didn't have to wait for me," Booth said ineffectually. "I never wanted…" To cause her more pain, he thought.

Cam shrugged. "She insisted. Come on. You need to get checked out too."

Booth got into Cam's car, while Angela and Brennan took his SUV. They drove most of the way back to D.C. in silence, and Cam took the turnoff for the nearest hospital. As the four of them entered the building together, Booth marched up to the desk to flash his badge at the nurse. Intimidate her just enough, he thought, so they got faster service, and didn't have to sit in the waiting room filling out forms for an hour.

His ploy worked, and soon white-coated staff led him to one wing, and Brennan to another. He perched on a bed while doctors gave him a complete, but thankfully quick, workup, whisking away a vial of his blood for the tox screen. As Booth pulled his shirt back on, the intern told him they wouldn't have the full results until tomorrow, but for now he got a clean bill of health. Aside from a headache, no side effects had manifested, and he could be sent home with the caution to take it easy, and to avoid driving or operating heavy machinery. "Yeah, thanks," he said, grabbing his jacket and making a beeline for the hallway.

He found Cam in a waiting area several corridors away. She was tapping one foot and not reading the magazine in her lap. "Hey," she greeted him. "What's the word?"

"The word is fine," he said. "I'm good to go, but they won't have the official drug identification thing until tomorrow. Where…" he glanced up and down the hallway. "Did Angela…?"

"She went with Brennan. I thought she wouldn't let her come along at first, but…"

"Good," Booth murmured awkwardly. "That's good, she can…hold her hand or whatever."

Cam stood up. "Come on, why don't I take you home."

"No, I, ah, want to wait for Bones." Booth shifted his weight, trying to find reasons not to go home yet. "She'll want to know about the tox screen, you know how she gets about that lab stuff…" And I need to make sure she's okay, he thought. I don't want to leave without touching base. Without seeing her.

But he had to get out of this place. He was quivering with nervous energy, that had to be worked off, not intensified by more standing around waiting. Cam, fortunately, understood this. She agreed to wait there, and would give Brennan a message from him…But what? 'I'm fine, I'll call you later?' That would have to do. That, and extracting a promise from Cam: she would inform him if Brennan's doctors reported anything more than bumps and bruises.

Booth burst out of the hospital doors and strode off down the road, covering most of the two miles toward his gym before he'd even thought much about his destination. He heard a bus roaring up, and hopped on for the last few blocks. Although his stomach grumbled with hunger and his skin felt grimy, he could not go home and relax. He needed to sweat, to exert himself. To hit something.

At the gym he scarfed down an energy bar, pulled on the grubby workout clothes he kept in his locker, and went straight to one of the heavy bags. He proceeded to beat the hell out of it, picturing Anders' and Rawling's faces on it the whole time.

Angela waited behind the curtain while the nurse helped Brennan out of her clothing. This was the part of evidence collection where they took photos-- documenting the marks on her body. It's not too bad, Angela told herself. Just bruises and scratches, right? Some delinquent guys mauling my best friend. But they'd had weapons. The physical injuries could've been much worse.

The doctor did want Brennan to get x-rays, once they were finished here, to check for bone trauma on her ribcage. From that bastard kicking her. Angela felt herself shaking with anger, not knowing whether to kick the wall or start crying, from relief and fear. No, she thought. Breathe. Be calm. Brennan let you come in here with her. Try to be strong and logical, for her sake.

Angela had to stand there a few more minutes, twisting her hands and staring at the pale blue curtain. Behind it, the nurse had Brennan put on a hospital gown and answer a long list of graphic questions about what type of sexual activity had occurred. Angela looked at the wall, where there was a poster diagramming the female reproductive tract in shades of soft pink. The table under it held several pamphlets about birth control and--Angela swallowed--rape crisis centers.

Then the curtain clattered open, and the doctor set up for the gynecological part of the exam. Angela was allowed to sit next to the bed and hold her friend's hand. Except for a feverish blush on her cheeks, Brennan looked pale. Her cut lip had been cleaned of dried blood, but the bruise on the side of her face was worse, a blue-purple shadow spreading under one eye.

The doctor explained everything she was doing in quiet, measured tones. Whenever Brennan would wince, Angela squeezed her hand harder.

Booth grabbed a sandwich from the gym's café before heading for FBI headquarters, but didn't bother to shower or to treat the cracked skin across his knuckles. Yeah, he'd neglected to wear boxing gloves while mentally beating the crap out of the criminals. Because he'd been in a hurry, and because naked fists were more…primal. Stupid, too, but he'd worry about that later.

Stupid. What an appropriate word. Pummeling that bag, he'd been pummeling himself as well. How had he let it happen? The whole sorry day: surprised by the suspects, held at gunpoint, bound with his own cuffs, injected with drugs. Stupid and helpless. While his partner was--

Booth slammed through the door of the FBI building so hard the security guy almost drew his weapon. He recognized Booth a second later, and the men nodded apologetically at each other. After hours, the place was not as quiet and deserted as it could be. Good thing, Booth thought, because people needed to be working on this case. He found several of his colleagues and demanded updates, then called the ones who were absent. He ducked into his office to consult various databases, searching both the suspects' descriptions and the make of their getaway vehicle.

Agent Fleming poked his head in to go over next stage of investigation, and to mention a few details they still needed from him. Then he tried to send Booth home, reminding him that because he was involved in the case, he could not take a direct role in pursuing leads. Booth knew of this policy, of course…but rules could be bent. They weren't going to stop him from running his own parallel investigation. Fleming was a good enough guy; his tone made it clear he didn't fully support the policy either. And he refrained from saying Booth had been a 'victim' in the case--which was only smart, if the guy wanted to keep all of his teeth.

Angela offered to drive her home and insisted on staying the night, but Brennan refused to go home right away. After the battery of tests and questions at the hospital, she felt too wired and anxious; like Booth, she had to _do _something--even if it was not related to catching the criminals. She decided they would go for a walk. Angela protested, but yielded to Brennan's logic: walking would clear her head and help her relax. If her ribs wouldn't allow a martial arts workout--the ideal way to vent tension--then moderate activity in the fresh air would be the next best thing. So, they drove several blocks to a nearby park, one with trails winding through trees and flowerbeds, not far from the Washington monuments.

The evening was turning chilly, but Brennan didn't mind the crisp air. She was wearing the same clothes she had put back on at the hospital…minus her underwear. They had taken that for evidence, although, as she had told them, Anders had used a condom. There would be no DNA from that source.

Angela filled the air with harmless talk, which Brennan appreciated. It helped distract her brain from replaying the day's events over and over. As they walked past flowerbeds bordering a reflecting pool, Angela abruptly stopped talking. The current story had veered into the topic of sex, as was not uncommon with Angela. After a second of silence, she said, "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, honey. Are there things I shouldn't say? I don't know--"

"No, it's fine, Ange. I…like listening to you," Brennan offered. "What about that…professor in art school?"

Angela settled on the theme with relief. "The one who couldn't match colors in her own wardrobe? Well…" She embarked on a new story.

Brennan listened with one ear. Gravel crunched under their feet. They nodded at the occasional jogger or dog walker going past. Between the trees, the Washington monument pierced a peach sky against bruise-colored clouds.

Before they'd set off, Brennan had taken one of the pain pills from the hospital, and her ribs hurt a little less. However, as they neared the end of their loop, she began to feel foggy and tired, and ready to go home. The drug, like a thick blanket, merely masked the ache from the bruised muscles, cartilage and bone.

It did not cover other aches. A woman, Brennan realized, was not aware of her vagina on a daily basis; she did not feel it. But she was aware of hers now. As she walked, its inner walls seemed to barely touch each other. She imagined it like a plush vertical cave, a rose rock cleft. But it hurt. It felt battered and raw. 'Violated' was an obvious word. The nurses had reported mild bleeding and tearing, but nothing that couldn't heal itself, given time. Now, if Brennan's mind wandered away from Angela's monologue, if it flashed back to the hotel room, or even the hospital, those inner walls seemed to shudder momentarily, with ghost pain.

It was dark by the time they completed their walk. Angela dropped Brennan at her apartment, then went to return Booth's car, stopping at her own place to retrieve some things to stay overnight. She had Brennan's spare key, and let herself in a short time later. Brennan was still in her room, having just come out of the shower. She must be starving, Angela thought, and began rummaging in the kitchen to prepare them some dinner. She's had next to nothing all day, except the trail mix and bottled water I got her from the hospital vending machine, to make sure she wouldn't pass out from low blood sugar before we finished walking.

Brennan emerged in a bathrobe, with wet hair, and a waft of herbal lotion. "How 'bout an omelet, sweetie?" Angela looked up from the counter, where she had assembled eggs, vegetables and spices. "Although I still haven't found a non-stick pan."

Brennan showed her the appropriate cupboard, and Angela carried on chopping vegetables, trying to maintain her stream of cheerful chatting…as if nothing was wrong. Was that the right thing to do? Brennan had a somewhat glazed look, like she was only hearing half of it.

The phone rang as they were eating their omelet, and Angela jumped up to get it. Booth's voice greeted her, sounding unusually tentative. He reassured her that he was fine, and then said, "Can…I talk to Bones?"

Brennan had been sitting with her fork frozen in midair, but she put it down quickly when Angela said, "Booth wants to make sure you're okay."

She took the phone. "Booth, did you get the results of the tox screen? Are you…feeling any side effects?"

"No, Bones, I'm okay. They'll tell me the exact, you know, substance tomorrow. Nothing worse than a headache right now."

"You should try to get a good night's sleep," she said. "It will give your liver time to flush out residual toxins."

"Yeah. Bones, listen. Ah…" What could he say, now that he had called? "Cam told me--two cracked ribs?"

"Yes. The seventh and ninth ribs. At the hospital they gave me an analgesic that seems effective enough."

"You mean painkillers, right?" Would Booth never stop feeling foolish around her?

"Yes. From the Greek prefix _an, _and _algos, _meaning without pain."

"Right," Booth said. He would let his squint have this one, no comment. "But there's nothing else you can do for that? Just let it heal?"

"That's right. Painkillers should only be necessary during the first week," Brennan explained, "and after six weeks the damage will have repaired itself."

I wish, Booth thought, it was all that simple.

He found something else he could say. "I talked to the Bureau guys. We're not supposed to work directly on the case anymore, now that we're involved, but I know I can get Fleming to keep me posted, and I've already got several avenues for tracking these guys down."

"Yeah, that's good. Maybe…Zach and I can continue studying the victim's bones for further evidence." She didn't sound very focused or convinced, but was holding up her half of their partnership nonetheless.

"These guys might be good," Booth said, "but they're not that good. Somewhere, sometime, they're going to get careless, and that's when we get them."

"Right. I know you'll…do your cop thing." He heard it in her voice; she was giving him credit for that--his assertion that detective work, not science, solves cases. She was trusting him.

"Yeah, thanks, Bones. I mean…I don't know what to say." I'm so sorry, he could have said. It's my fault. I feel horrible for what you went through.

"I know," Brennan replied softly. "Me too." She could have said, I was afraid for you. I'm sorry this happened. Maybe I could have stopped it.

Angela woke in the dark, in Brennan's guest room. The clock read 1:30. She had already spent way too much time staring at that clock before falling asleep. There was a light in the hallway, shining in a sliver through the partly open door. Brennan must be getting a drink of water or something, Angela thought, and waited to hear her footsteps returning to bed. When they didn't come, she decided to get up.

Brennan was in the living room, gazing at her bookcases. Angela came in, squinting in the lamp light. "Hey," she said.

Brennan turned. "I'm sorry if I woke you." She wore a similar sleeping outfit as Angela, a sleeveless shirt and loose pants. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd get something to read, but…" She surveyed the shelves. "Nothing looks appealing right now."

Angela snorted. "Honey, you don't have anything even approaching light reading." She glanced at the coffee table and back to the shelves. "Anthropology journals, anatomy textbooks, FBI crime files… No. Not the sort of thing to help you sleep. Hold on, I know--I have a bunch of magazines in my bag. Come with me." Angela reached out and herded Brennan back down the hall. She waited in the doorway while Angela dug through the large bag she had brought. "Yes--here's a fashion one," she pulled it out, "a travel one, and a yoga one. What do you say?"

"Travel, I guess."

"We can get in bed and read silly articles, like it's a sleepover and we're thirteen."

"I never really had sleepovers," Brennan said. "At least not when I was thirteen. And then high school--"

"Come on, I'm freezing here." Angela grabbed a corner of the covers, ready to burrow back under them.

"Wait, my bed is bigger," Brennan pointed out. "It should be more comfortable."

Angela shrugged, "Works for me. But here's the number one rule for good sleepovers--and maybe good marriages, now that I think of it." She dragged the blanket off the guest bed. "Separate covers."

As they settled into Brennan's bed, Angela plumped pillows behind her and spread the magazine on her lap. She saw Brennan grimace from the slight motions of stretching out and arranging the covers, and gave her a concerned look. "I can't sleep on my left side," she explained.

Angela felt the need to say something. "But…the pain stuff they gave you, it works okay?" Brennan nodded, and Angela flipped through the glossy magazine pages as a means of distraction.

Then Brennan observed, "I've never had a woman in this bed before."

Angela almost laughed. "Uh…sweetie--" She would have said something suggestive, under normal circumstances, but decided to censor herself.

"I mean, I've either been alone, or with a man. This is…different. Nice."

"I'm glad you think so. Yeah, it is." Angela flashed her infectious grin. "Sleepovers."

They took turns reading excerpts from magazines, but soon Brennan fell silent. Tired, Angela would bet, the poor thing. She started reading an article aloud, but her friend surprised her by interrupting, "Why didn't either of us check that Booth had someone to stay with him? Cam, or one of his FBI buddies."

Angela took a second to catch up. "Stay with him?"

"Well, you told me I shouldn't be alone, so it's only logical that the same applies to Booth."

"Sweetie…he's a big tough guy." Angela tried to say it lightly, but her voice dropped. "And yes, you're a big tough girl," she anticipated Brennan's objection. "But…he didn't go through quite the same thing as you."

"No…I suppose not."

They turned off the light after that, resolving to sleep. But, true to the traditional sleepover, they continued talking sporadically. Their voices sounded smaller in the dark, drowsy and soft.

"You would tell me, right?" Angela said into a moment of stillness. "I mean, if there's anything I can do?"

"Yes. I mean, I think so. You know, I don't really talk about…feelings. But thank you, Ange. For being such a friend."

They lay curled in companionable silence for a few moments. Angela blinked at the pale gray rectangle of the shaded window. She heard a gentle whoosh from the room's air vents. When Brennan spoke again, her voice was strained.

"I keep seeing it, flashes of things that happened. It's like…a movie that won't stop playing in my head."

"That's probably normal, right?" Angela murmured. "And it should stop, after a while."

"But then there are the worse things that could have happened. They--they threatened me and Booth, if I didn't cooperate. In that room with them, Rawling showed me he had a knife as well as the gun, and I truly believed he would use it."

Angela reached from her blanket into the chilly air and groped for her friend's hand.

"Anders said…" Brennan spoke haltingly, but now that she'd started, it was like she couldn't stop. "He said he liked a little resistance to spice things up, but not too much, or I'd be sorry. Then…" her voice caught. "He made me undo some of my clothing, and hit me a little, so I fought back, but not that hard, because…"

"Because he'd threatened you and Booth," Angela whispered.

"He had Rawling hold me down--hold my arms, with my face pressed against the table. It put a lot of pressure on my zygomatic bone. As well as the patella and iliac spine, against the side of the desk. But when…" Angela heard her inhale. "I didn't think it could hurt so much. I mean…relatively speaking, there aren't that many nerves in the vagina."

Oh god, Angela thought.

"Not past the lower third, anyway," Brennan continued, seeking comfort in scientific fact. "Not like the clitoris. Did you know it has 8000 nerve endings? That's a much higher concentration than in the penis."

"Uh, I did know that, actually," Angela recovered. "It's a good detail to know. But sweetie…" Can she really stand to talk about these facts now? Angela wondered. "I don't think that science can help you in everything," she went on gently. "The point is, there are still plenty of nerves to get hurt." Brennan was silent, and Angela kept hold of her hand under their overlapping blankets. "And what did the doctor say at the hospital? I mean, that moment--when the exam was really painful, wasn't it? I was so worried." She could still hear Brennan's gasp of shock, see the way her muscles tensed under the rustling papery sheet.

"Myofascial pain," Brennan said. Trust her to adhere faithfully to terminology, even in times of stress. "The pelvic floor muscles and related tissue." Her voice was flat, reciting information. "If triggered by pressure, they can contract, or seize up in response… It is, yes, very painful."

"I think I've read something," Angela said, "probably in one of these women's magazines… That it could have several different causes…stemming from physical or psychological trauma."

Brennan's response was automatic. "You know I hate psychology."

Angela could only hug her in the dark. "I know, sweetie. I know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Hey, it's my first story to post here, and if there's a separate place to enter notes and disclaimers, I haven't found it yet.

Time Frame: No specific one, but since Sweets appears in later chapters, it's approximately season 3 (but it's also before Brennan gets a gun). I believe in a fluidity of fictional storylines, and don't like to pin my stories down according to exactly what's written in the episodes…and no one story cancels out another potential story.

Rating: Might be T, but I'll be on the safe side and call it M.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; I just invite them to play at my imagination house. No copyright infringement intended.

**The Suspects in the Suite **part 2

The next day was Friday, and Booth, after sleeping an extra hour, haunted the FBI offices. He was supposed to work only on unrelated cases, but surreptitiously pursued ways to track down Anders. Maybe he should count himself lucky not to have been put on leave. Co-workers gave him furtive looks and didn't seem to know how to act around him. He got tired of saying, 'Yeah, I'm fine,' or else waving off weak jokes about being disarmed and getting stoned on the Bureau's time.

He spent the weekend with Parker. It was a relief to pretend things were normal. To toss a football around the field, to laugh at cartoons, to hear about the games Parker played at recess or the squabbles with his classmates. Booth did not talk to Brennan, and felt guilty. How was she holding up? He finally sent her a text message, after far more agonizing than the situation seemed to warrant: 'Busy with Parker. Hope you're ok.' Lame, he thought. 'See you Monday?'

She answered back, while he was making Parker some mac and cheese. 'Took Friday off. Angela insisted. Working on ID-ing WWI remains. Yes, see you Monday.'

Of course, Bones would be back in the lab. Immersed in squint work and concrete facts. Going through some old skeleton for marks, anomalies, statistical points of--whatever. That stuff, he knew, was comforting to her.

**

Brennan and Booth waited outside Sweets' office. These minutes were never particularly relaxing--killing time before the genius kid began dissecting the inner workings of their partnership and personalities--but today they were even further from relaxed.

"What does Sweets even know about what happened?" Booth demanded, slapping his unread magazine back on the table. "It's our usual day to meet with him, but he knows we were held hostage--what, five days ago--so we must have all these new issues he has to probe out of us and resolve, but…what does he actually know?"

Brennan was sitting next to him on the couch, arms crossed in front of her. "Does that matter?" she asked.

"Well, yeah, it matters, Bones. I mean, are we going to have to recite everything that went on for him? We already had to tell it enough times, for the local PD, and the Bureau, and their special-investigation team… And now Sweets too? Is he going ask for every detail and always be saying _how did you feel about that_?"

"I see your point," she murmured.

"Look." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked intently at her. "We're partners. We do the same as we always do. We don't rat each other out." She raised an eyebrow. "For lack of a better term," he corrected. "But…I just wanted to be clear. We don't have to tell him anything we don't want to. I can stick to…the events concerning me," Booth said carefully, "and you can stick to the events concerning you. As much or as little as we want."

She was silent a moment, speculating. Was he trying to protect her? It was touching, if somewhat irrational. "I get it, Booth. You're often uncomfortable talking about sex, especially if Sweets tries to get involved. But in this instance, I can agree with you."

**

Sweets, luckily, did not ask for a retelling of events. Could that be sensitivity on his part? Booth wondered. He usually liked to dig and poke at whatever made them uncomfortable. But Dr. Saroyan had given him a brief summary of what happened, and apparently that was all he needed to let the therapy begin.

He wanted them to talk about their feelings of helplessness. "Both of you like to be in control, so this was a very difficult situation."

Booth sighed and gave the obvious answer. "Yeah, you could say it was difficult. Guns pointed at us, threatened and tied up, injected with a drug…"

"None of that was your fault, Booth," Brennan said softly.

"What? Yeah, well…" He shifted awkwardly. "Surely not yours either. I mean, you wanted to fight them."

Sweets pounced on that, and with a little prodding, Booth admitted he'd told Brennan not to get physical.

"Because the risks were too high," Brennan said. "He…was right."

"Yeah, well, I wish I wasn't. I'd be glad to let you take a swing at them now. I mean"--why not admit this too, Booth thought, trying to give a wry grin at his own expense--"I went and beat up a heavy bag at the gym afterward." He looked at Sweets. "Right, isn't that something you like to talk about? How I had to vent excess anger on some inanimate target, because I didn't have the bad guys right there?" He slouched back against the couch. "I say it's a healthy thing to do."

Sweets narrowed his eyes. Weren't those cuts across Booth's knuckles? Not exactly "healthy." And was he saying all this to distract Sweets from something? Maybe to keep him from focusing on his partner?

Brennan was nodding. "I can understand that. My ribs need more time to heal, but I'm looking forward to resuming karate class. Although, beating up someone there would not exactly be a good way to participate in the class."

"You can come to my gym," Booth suggested, "and wail on that bag as much as you want." He tried out his roguish grin, and Brennan smiled.

Sweets observed their interplay with a thoughtful look on his face. It was fascinating, not to mention irritating, the way they worked through and resolved issues on their own, excluding him. These resolutions, he had to admit, were cute to watch. And, while often crude, worked satisfactorily for them. But something else was going on here, he mused. They were being too nice to each other. And he detected, under Booth's joke, an element of utter seriousness.

Sweets interrupted his own train of thought. "Wait, I'm sorry," he said into the momentary silence. "If Agent Booth cautioned you not to fight back, how did you get injured?" It had only just occurred to him, after the mention of healing ribs, and the still-evident bruises on Brennan's lip and eyebrow.

The partners glanced at each other uneasily. "That was later," Brennan said. "Anders decided to let me fight the security guy, Rawling. As if…he got some kind of enjoyment out of it."

"Did you…" Sweets was frowning as somberly as either of them had seen. "You had to watch this fight, Agent Booth?"

"No," Booth said slowly. "I was pretty out of it, from the damn drug."

Until now Sweets had been too busy noting their behavior to see any gaps or inconsistencies in their story. For instance…why had Brennan fought the bad guys, and not Booth? And why had only one of them been drugged? He would have to take a look at the police report, and whatever information was available about the criminals who had held them. Meanwhile, Sweets knew the partners were leaving things out…but decided not to push them at this stage.

"I'll let you go a few minutes early today," he said, "but I want you to think about something for next time. I have observed…" They exchanged an apprehensive glance. "…that you're both being very polite with each other. Your usual pattern of interaction is more combative, even aggressive. It's not as respectful and reserved as what I'm seeing now."

Sweets lifted his hand, squeezing one of the little stress balls he kept around his office. "Here's what I'd like you to consider for our next session. Is this carefulness I'm observing, this…gentleness… Is it the natural result of experiencing something stressful together? The fact that you survived, you worked together to get free, and now you're more appreciative of the other person? See--" Sweets couldn't help leaning forward. "You've been in risky situations together before, yet to my knowledge, you haven't altered your behavior as conspicuously. So," he brought the speech in for a landing, "is this a temporary dynamic? Or is it some new facet of your relationship, brought to the forefront by the recent situation?"

The pair had dubious looks on their faces, but nodded their agreement to think about it. "All right, the usual time later this week," Sweets concluded.

As they got up to leave, Booth, with typical irreverence, had to make a parting comment. "Oh, now we're getting mental homework from a twelve year old." He reached the door and held it open for Brennan.

**

That week, Brennan and Booth had resumed work on the case they'd started before the business with Anders. They were investigating one of the unidentified skeletons from Limbo, the basement storage facility. Searches of the usual databases turned up no matches for dental records. However, the missing persons list provided several possibilities based on the physical parameters Brennan had deduced from the skeleton. Booth collected the families' addresses and information, while Angela supplied her sketch of the mystery man's face.

The partners soon found themselves sitting side by side in Booth's SUV, on the way to interview the first of their John Doe's potential relatives.

"Hopefully we can learn more about the circumstances of his disappearance," Booth was saying.

"It would be most useful to procure medical records, to potentially match an injury or disease to the skeletal remains. There were several abnormalities that could--"

"Right--you do your thing and I do mine." Booth stopped her from delving into the science, while trying to smooth over their ritual competition of forensics-versus-detective-work. At least that hadn't changed between them.

They sat in silence for several miles, watching trees and road signs tick by. It was scarcely a week since the run-in with Rawling and Anders, and in the car's enclosed space, it was harder to ignore their recent lack of conversation.

Booth cleared his throat tentatively and asked, "Have you had any, you know, dreams? Bad ones?"

Brennan glanced at him, then back at the road. "Not really. I'm just not sleeping." Booth could believe that. She had faint shadows under her eyes, in addition to the fading bruise. And he himself was heading for the coffee machine more often than was good for him.

After a pause, Bones offered, "It's these…thoughts going through my head. The what-ifs. The cost-benefit analysis of different options."

For once, Booth understood perfectly. Lying awake, going over all that stuff. "Yeah," he said. "That can happen."

The silence followed them most of the way toward their destination, but it was a little less uncomfortable. As Booth took the appropriate turnoff, he said, "Listen, Bones, I should have said this earlier. If this case hits too close to home--a family member goes missing with no explanation, and then we find their bones in Limbo--you know, you can always sit this one out."

Bones didn't answer right away. "No," she said. "It is similar, but…I want to. It's good to do the work."

"Yeah," Booth gave a sober nod. "It is good to work." Maybe, he thought--cursing FBI-assigned shrinks for getting him to think in their terms--Bones would rather feel a familiar kind of distress, the empathy for someone else who'd lost a family member, rather than dwell on more recent troubles. Hell, it made sense to him.

**

After they'd visited the families and began driving back, it was still relatively early in the afternoon. They hadn't been able to give the relatives any concrete answers. Brennan suspected they had a match for their missing man, based on an old injury that the brother had mentioned, but she would need to analyze the medical records once they arrived at the Jeffersonian.

Booth clicked on the car radio and was twisting the dial through static. "I think it would be better if I went straight home," Brennan said.

He gave her a startled look. She had her elbow resting on the car door, with her hand held up by her face, like she was shading her eyes, or had a headache. Booth turned off the radio.

"You all right, Bones?" She looked worn out, physically and emotionally. I should have realized, he thought.

"Yes," she said, "but…the healing tissue around my ribs is very tender, and it tends to get worse later in the day."

"Yeah, Bones, I can definitely take you home. Didn't the doctors say you should take more time off? I mean, you push yourself pretty hard, even when you don't have cracked ribs."

"I wasn't officially barred from working, just from long or strenuous activity." She glanced at him. "You're not one to talk. You've done the same thing. Worse, actually--sneaking out of the hospital with Hodgins after getting blown up? That certainly wasn't the way to let your ribs heal."

"Yeah, I don't see you complaining," Booth teased, "since I did it to save your life." Brennan didn't have a reply to that, and seemed sorry she'd brought it up. So did Booth, for that matter. They didn't need to remember another scenario involving rope, a gun pointed at Brennan, and visible bruises on both of them. Plus guilt, on Booth's part, for not making the connections sooner.

They fell back into awkward silence, trying not to reflect on their recent failure to save each other.

"You sure I can't get you anything?" Booth asked as he pulled to a stop outside Brennan's apartment. "Chicken soup? An old movie? Pain medication that's sure to cause mild euphoric hallucinations?"

"No, thanks," Brennan answered, her expression telling him 'you're nuts.' She pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow. Tell everyone at the lab I'm fine." She started to turn away, then stopped. "I…hope you sleep better."

"Yeah," Booth said gently. "You too."

**

After reading the police report, the partners' statements, and assorted FBI files, Sweets was intimidated. He paced around his office, because squeezing the stress balls was not working. Do I scare too easily? he thought. I have an inflated sense of my own importance? I'm just an office jockey. And I'm glad to stay that way. Safe. Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan are out in the field. They're tough. They see and do harsh things. They go through something…like this.

Sweets went back to his desk and grabbed a stress ball in each hand. The thought emerging foremost in his mind was… They didn't tell me? They sat here yesterday and didn't tell me something as…huge…as this? Outrageous!

Sweets took a calming breath. He looked at his bonsai tree. He stared at his doctorates on the wall. Right--he had some thinking to do before their next session.

**

By the time Booth and Brennan arrived at his office later that week, Sweets still wasn't feeling very confident. "Since our last visit," he began carefully, "I read over several FBI files about the suspects, as well as the police report and your statements at the scene."

"You read our statements?" Booth cried. "I didn't think anyone had access to those." Brennan shifted uneasily. The pair clearly felt this was a violation of their privacy. They were, Sweets observed, ashamed of what had happened to them.

"Please, remember, this is a truth zone," he affirmed. "And…I feel I should tell you, I was unaware of all the events that took place while you were held in that suite. Not only that you were separated, and that Dr. Brennan was taken into the other room with the suspects… But also details, like the fact you," he looked at Booth, "were secured with your own handcuffs. These things add up to much more significant stresses than you were willing to share with me." Sweets paused. The partners looked slightly guilty, but listened with trepidation more than anything else.

"I admit, this was a lot for me to process," Sweets went on. "But I thought…that we had some tenuous understanding, and that you appreciated my assistance with keeping your partnership together. Your unwillingness to be more forthcoming makes me call all of that into question."

Brennan looked to Booth. "Is he trying to make us feel guilty?" she said in an undertone. "About the truth zone stuff?"

"Yep." Booth gave her a quick nod. "But--we didn't _lie_, Sweets, we just… refrained from mentioning everything. And it's nothing personal--I don't feel like talking to _any _shrink. It doesn't matter that it's you."

"I have to agree," Brennan said.

Sweets was shaking his head with a wry grimace. "This is so typical. It fits with the pattern, that thing you do, excluding the third party as a way to overcome the inherent tendency to--Yeah, you don't care. The point is, it's Agent Booth trying to protect people close to him," he looked at Brennan, "and Dr. Brennan being unwilling to talk about non-quantifiable things like emotions."

They all stared at each other a moment. Booth shrugged.

"All right, I have to just get over your not mentioning something of vital importance," Sweets said. "Okay." He waved his hand as if brushing it away. "We're here to talk about you."

Brennan was frowning, her head slightly tilted. "Aside from the truth zone thing…why is this such a big deal? Are you saying, the fact that…sexual assault is involved--" she paused only a second, but Booth squirmed. "Why should that change anything?"

"Are you kidding?" Sweets asked. "This ups the ante on every emotion, every tension and reaction. Adding a sexual component to the captivity, the violence, and the witnessing of each other's vulnerability--I mean…" Sweets let out his breath in an overwhelmed whistle. "We're swimming in some deep water here. In terms of therapy sessions, I haven't come across anything this--I don't know--juicy and convoluted and scary, in my whole career."

"Yeah, all nine seconds of it," Booth said out of the corner of his mouth.

"If you're uncomfortable," Brennan volunteered, "perhaps we should suspend our sessions."

"Ah--no," Sweets said. "Nice try. I don't think that will be necessary. In fact, it's essential to continue partners' therapy in light of the recent experiences. I know this…is difficult, but I hope I can have your cooperation. And I will admit, I'm not necessarily the best therapist for all aspects of your recent experience." He looked at Brennan. "You know my training and expertise is in criminal profiling, not women's issues--"

"Women's issues? If you're talking about sexual assault, it's an issue for all of society, Sweets, not just women. It--"

He held up a hand to forestall her. "You're right. I apologize." Sweets could tell he'd pissed her off, and she'd been about to lecture on all the socio-cultural factors contributing to the crime.

After that inauspicious start, the rest of the session felt like pulling teeth. The pair did not want to talk. At least, not with him, and not now.

Brennan spent most of the time with her arms folded in front of her. Classic body language: defensive, self-protective. You could almost see the tension in her muscles. If she got up, Sweets imagined, she'd be pacing the room like a caged cat. Any responses she gave were clipped sentences that stuck to facts.

And Booth? It was odd; he was almost accommodating. Putting on the act that everything was okay and that his strong feelings had dissipated, which they clearly had not. Sweets bet that he didn't want either of them to see the full extent of his anger and guilt.

At the moment, the partners would both rather stay in denial. Sweets guessed that Booth would rather be chasing someone down an alley, and Brennan would rather be looking at bones under the microscope, or going to the firing range to tear dead-center holes in the human-outline targets.

He had a small measure of success asking them to volunteer some of the thoughts that went through their head either during or after the ordeal.

Booth admitted his culpability: "People never get the drop on me like that. I guess my cop instincts were taking the day off." And he wasn't as suspicious as he could have been. He didn't have a second gun strapped to his calf.

Brennan listened to his grim remarks, then said slowly, "Maybe I should have fought them more. I wanted to. But I was scared." She did not elaborate. Sweets saw Booth's mouth make a small desperate motion, like biting the inside of his cheek. "They had travel they had to get to," Brennan went on, rationalizing. "They probably didn't have time to…torture and kill us."

"Or, just kill us with a quick bullet to the forehead," Booth said. "Bastard was right he when said the hotel walls were thick. No one would have known for a while."

It disturbed Sweets to see their distress, or rather their concealment of it. They were his professional research subjects, yes, but also colleagues, hopefully friends, and people he admired. Dr. Brennan, understandably, was more reserved than usual, and having a hard time articulating the personal and subjective point of view. But Sweets had faith in his process, and believed that gentle prodding was in order.

Booth had already volunteered a few things, so Sweets asked Brennan to say more about the mixed feelings she'd mentioned about fighting back. She struggled with the question, thoughts churning behind her eyes, and Booth watched her with pain in his own.

She was wearing a necklace of green stones, and a light blue button-down shirt. It looked cool and crisp, at odds with the palpable anxiety of her hands twisting together on her knees.

Finally she shook her head. "I can't." She glanced at Booth out of habit. He was often good at understanding and voicing things she couldn't express…but in this case, he didn't know. She was on her own.

Sweets tried again, acknowledging her distrust of psychology, but promoting the benefits of talking things out.

"I talk to Angela," Brennan said after a moment. "At least, one time. She stayed at my apartment the night it happened. I…told her some things then."

"All right," Sweets nodded, encouraging. "And can you share some of those things now?"

"Sweets, give her a break," Booth said.

"I could give a recitation of the events, if that's what you want," Brennan tried.

"No!" Booth exclaimed. He actually looked scared. "I mean…that's not necessary, Bones. Right?" He looked at Sweets, who thought, Booth has to be wracked with curiosity. He wants to know and yet he doesn't.

"What I think Agent Booth means," Sweets explained, "is that right now we're concerned with _reactions _to the events." With overly-rational personalities like Brennan, it was often best to spell things out.

"She knows that, Sweets," Booth groaned. "Look, she shouldn't have to say one word about what happened, not if she doesn't want to."

Sweets decided to take the head-on approach. "And why not?"

"Why not--because, Sweets," Booth fell back against the couch. "What the hell do we know? We're two guys. And you're twelve."

Brennan followed their exchange with a quizzical frown.

"All right," Sweets said. "I can accept that. But bear with me for one more question." He looked at Brennan. "Just articulate one thing about the whole experience. One event or observation, and then we can call it a day."

Booth gave a frustrated sigh. "She said she doesn't want to talk about it."

"Booth, I can speak for myself," she put in. "But…thank you."

"Dr. Brennan is a very strong and courageous person," Sweets countered. "I don't think this is too much to ask." He held her gaze, and she studied him in return. Yes, he was manipulating, even daring her. Would she take it?

She sighed. "Fine." Under pressure to tell them something, she fidgeted for a moment. Then, "I kicked Rawling in the testicles," she said in her straightforward manner. "After Anders had…finished…he decided to let me fight Rawling. The idea was, if I did well enough, maybe Rawling wouldn't…get to have a turn. So when I had a chance--my hands were still tied, but I kicked him, so he wouldn't be able to perform sexually. Then…they both knocked me down, and that's when Rawling injured my ribs," she concluded. "With his boot."

Oh, thought Sweets, my god. That was a little more than he'd bargained for. The men sat in horrified silence. She'd accepted his dare, all right--and thrown one back. What would they say to it?

Booth recovered first. He forced a triumphant tone, growling, "Ha--gave him a good kick in the nuts. That's my girl." He tried his tough guy grin, and made as if to punch her in the arm, but stopped short of contact.

Brennan looked at him with a bemused expression, both irritated and pleased by the comment. "I'm no one's _girl_, Booth. I'm my own person."

"Of course you are," he said softly. "I know you are."

Sweets caught his eye, thinking they were both glad to hear Brennan make such a retort. It was just the kind of thing she usually said. It meant she was okay.

Sweets felt it was safe to interrupt. "Would you say," he asked Brennan, "that kicking Rawling was worth it, even if that act of resistance provoked them to gang up on you and cause the rib injuries?" He figured that a simple yes-or-no question was acceptable in this circumstance. And he could predict her answer.

She took nanoseconds to think it over. "Yes."

Sweets decided to let them leave without much follow-up, except to once more give them 'homework.' For the next session, he said, "I'd like you to consider something. What would you say to each other, if there was no chance you would hurt the other person's feelings, no kind of consequence whatsoever? And second, what are you afraid they would say to you?"

He saw Booth's eyes flick toward Brennan, and as he looked away, she glanced in his direction. Sweets sighed inwardly.

**

That weekend, Brennan returned to the victim's remains. She'd stayed away all those initial days following the…incident…with Anders and Rawling.

But it was time to confront the young woman's death. Time to search for more clues that could help the investigation.

She stood over the bones, set out neatly in relation to one another, softly under-lit by the lab table. The remains had been moved to one of the smaller rooms. Brennan realized that now, even on a quiet weekend, she felt more comfortable here than in the wide expanse of the main lab. The room soothed her with its familiar order: the cabinet of calipers, tweezers and other instruments; the monitor for viewing scans; the tall walls of semi-opaque drawers housing comparative specimens.

The victim's file sat near the head of the table, but Brennan did not need to open it to remember all the details. Miranda Charles, twenty-three, nickname Randi. Brennan and Booth had visited her parents two weeks ago. There they'd borrowed a photo for the file, noting that Angela's sketch had been quite accurate: a girl with dark brown hair, cut stylishly at chin length. Angela had called her cute, with impish hazel eyes.

Brennan shook her head, and leaned over the table. She would not think of the victim's name right now. She would study the bones again, thoroughly. All of them.

**

First thing Monday, Brennan reviewed her findings.

The bones were nearly unmarked. Yes, the body had been found partly decomposed in the river, and she had noted some of the expected damage from fish activity, or from scraping against rocks. Still, the bones were remarkably clean. Except for an exit wound in the occipital bone, and a small round bullet hole near the center of the frontal bone. It drew the eye in a disturbing manner, ruining the cranium's symmetry.

The phalanges, Brennan's initial analysis had revealed, showed adaptations for strength and dexterity. Miranda was perhaps a musician. The interview with her parents confirmed it: she had played the piano, practicing most often at their house, rather than in her small apartment. And the subtle stress fractures Brennan had noticed on her tibiae were characteristic of a runner. She and Booth had been shown a picture of Miranda with her college cross-country team.

The ribs--Brennan had scrutinized each one, not wanting to breathe. Had Rawling kicked her? Had there been a struggle before the murder? But she found no signs of trauma: no fractures, no dents. The post-cranial skeleton was not marked by Anders or Rawling.

If they had played the same sick game with this girl…if she had had to fight, to keep herself safe from a second assault…She wasn't trained in martial arts, Brennan thought. She might not have been able to incapacitate him with a well-aimed kick. But the ribs, she told herself, and the rest of the bones were clean.

Brennan looked next at the pelvis. It had been disarticulated, the sacrum and os coxae lying separate. She picked up the coxal bones, one in each hand, and fit them carefully together at the pubic symphysis. They felt strangely light, and strangely heavy, a paradox she could not resolve, although she had felt it before when examining remains.

There was the wide pelvic inlet denoting female, and there the graceful flaring of the iliac crest. Brennan could see, as if through one of Angela's holographic projections, how the bowl-shaped pelvis formed the framework for the viscera, and the cradle for the reproductive organs.

Had…she wondered, had Anders violated this space? Did she have that in common with the victim? The flesh was gone; it could not tell them. And there had not been enough left to make a determination. On the matter of sexual assault, Dr. Saroyan's exam had said 'inconclusive.' Now the flesh had been simmered away in the lab's boiling chamber. Pure bones remained.

Brennan replaced the hip bones on the table, but continued to trace her fingers over them. She wanted to feel the way they did. Clean and pared down and light. Would her bones look like this when she died? Or if those men had killed her? No--her ribs would be marked now. The injuries, although slight, although healing, would be there forever.

Brennan stared into space over the table of bones. If she…if she climbed into that boiling chamber herself, perhaps she could be purified the same way. She imagined walking to the room and locking the door. Setting the heat on the vat's dial as though starting a shower. Stripping off her clothes and dropping them on the floor. Climbing into the large stainless steel egg. To be scoured and steamed. Her marred flesh, imprinted by the suspects, would melt away. Leaving only bones.

Brennan shook herself, and shivered. No, she did not actually want to die. She should be chastised for the macabre daydream. The boiling chamber was no sauna at a health club. It was a piece of scientific equipment, designed to super-heat and liquefy flesh.

She hugged herself, fingers pressing into the triceps and deltoid of the opposite arm. She hadn't slept well again last night, after studying the victim's bones most of the day. That must be the reason she felt a little dazed, not sharp. Easily swayed by irrational thoughts.

"Brennan? Are you okay?" Angela had appeared in the doorway. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Normally, Brennan might have pointed out the impossibility of seeing something that didn't exist. But, she mentally conceded, the phrase was not so inaccurate. These remains…haunted her.

Angela had come to a similar conclusion. "Wait, what am I saying about ghosts? As usual, I find you standing over a skeleton. That's almost the same thing."

"Was there something you needed?" Brennan asked, wanting to divert the worried gaze that Angela, and most of the team for that matter, had fixed on her these days.

"I thought you'd want to know Hodgins' most recent findings." Angela came to the other side of the lab table and held up the folder she carried. "Although it's really nothing helpful. He finished analyzing the fibers found on the victim's waist," she explained, "that were probably used to tie weights to the body, so it would sink in the river when those pyscho-creeps dumped it. The material is some of your standard hardware-store rope, that could be used in any number of innocent projects, like--" Angela decided examples weren't relevant; besides, Brennan frowned on tangents. "The point is, the FBI is checking stores all over the area, to see if anyone saw the suspects, or has a record of the credit card number we got from the inn. It's kind of a needle in a haystack, though," Angela shrugged, "since we don't know when and where they might've bought the stuff, if it was even in the D.C. area." She gave Brennan another concerned glance. "Sorry not to have better news…"

But Brennan was staring at the bones again, visualizing the ropes encircling vanished muscles. Her eyes wandered from the vertebrae to the radius and ulna, and down to the wrists. "Angela!" she cried, making her friend jump. "The other fibers that Cam found--the trace ones pulled from the fingernails and remaining flesh. It could be the same material as the ropes they used to bind my wrists. Why didn't I think of this before?" And she was striding across the room before Angela had quite realized what was happening.

Brennan marched up to Hodgins' station with Angela hurrying after. As she described her theory, he started nodding with excitement. "I think you might be onto something," Hodgins said. "Those fibers were so small, I had decided to focus on the more obvious ones that the weights were tied to. But…" He was busily punching computer keys to access a file. "It's possible the traces came from a rope, but one that was probably removed before the body was dumped, otherwise we would have found more of that material."

He pointed at the computer screen. "The initial analysis…" Brennan was suddenly distracted by his hand. Its tan, smooth skin. Its appealing architecture of muscle and bone. Rawling had had ugly hands. Wide, with square nails, and scaly dry skin over his knuckles. She'd gotten a good close look at them while he held her down across the table. The bruises left by his hands and nails hadn't faded from her forearms.

Hodgins was saying, "The preliminary analysis showed nylon, but…" he trailed off, realizing that Brennan's eyes had lost their focus. She forced herself to meet his uncertain gaze, and nodded for him to continue. "I can go over the samples in more detail," Hodgins resumed, with a quick glance at Angela, "to really narrow it down. And if the FBI was saving everything at the scene…" he hesitated, but Brennan concluded his train of thought, shutting out everything but the evidence.

"We could potentially match the rope they used on me with the fibers found on the girl."

"Yes," Hodgins said, his eyes alight with the scientific quest. "I'm on it."

**

Angela pulled Brennan aside, ostensibly to let Hodgins work without anyone looking over his shoulder. "Look, Brennan, I think I should tell you something." Was that a look of guilt on Angela's face? Brennan gestured toward her office.

Once they were inside, Angela blurted, "I told Hodgins about what happened. I mean, not much, I just gave him the gist of it. Because, see…we were hanging out on Sunday, and I just--I broke down crying. So I had to explain why. Why I was even more worried than I would have been, because my best friend was held hostage."

"So…Hodgins knows about the sexual assault," Brennan clarified.

Angela winced. "I think he… Yeah. He got that, from what I said. Sweetie--do you have to be so brave all the time? Euphemisms exist for a reason."

Brennan was still processing what she had heard. "You were crying because you're worried about me?"

Angela's eyebrows drew a pained curve. "Yeah."

Brennan shook her head slightly. "You…feel things so much, Angela. I'm sorry."

"No, Sweetie. I'm supposed to be the one who's sorry." Typical Brennan, Angela thought. Dear, ironic Brennan, that I have to explain something like this. "But that's what artists do, right? Feel things too much." She smiled half-heartedly, and touched Brennan's arm. "That's what friends do."

**

"I thought Zach had something to show me."

"Yeah," Hodgins answered Brennan. He stood by the head of an exam table in a corner of the main lab. On it were arranged the bones of a World War I soldier that Zach was helping to assess. "He had to, uh, say hello to the attractive courier he hasn't seen in a while. He'll be back in a minute."

Brennan nodded absently, and bent over the table to look at one of the ribs. A moment later Zach appeared, swiping his access card and bounding up the stairs. "Dr. Brennan, I thought at first the bullet scar on the tenth rib would indicate cause of death, but the trajectory suggests it was just a flesh wound." He made his way over to their table, talking at double speed. Brennan glanced his way, but didn't straighten up from her observations. "Then I saw the clavicle, and started thinking about trench warfare and the type of weaponry soldiers would have had…"

At this point Zach reached the foot of the table, and angled for the right side, where Brennan was. For some reason their lab table had gotten pushed very close to the neighboring one, and the preoccupied Zach failed to notice the lack of space. Blithely he squeezed between the two tables. Hodgins opened his mouth in warning--going that way, he could not avoid running into his boss's posterior--but it was too late. Zach bumped right into Brennan as she leaned over the table, pushing her up against the edge. The jostling sent him off balance, and he instinctively put out a hand to steady himself against her back.

Brennan sucked in her breath. The table hit right on those still-tender bruises, and--It was Anders behind her, his pelvis against hers, his fingers digging into her hips and yanking down her waistband. Rawling, stretching her arms over her head, one hand compressing the vertebrae of her neck, crushing her face against the desk.

Zach regained his balance and shuffled past, relieving the pressure of the table jabbing into her hip. Brennan whirled, straightening up so fast her elbow almost caught Zach on the chin. She faced the two men with wild, furious eyes.

If she'd been a cat, Hodgins thought, she would have snarled.

"Zach!" he yelled. "What the hell?" He pulled Zach by the arm, a few steps further from Brennan. "I thought you were the one with the genius-level spatial acuity skills. But you go and squish your boss against a table? Watch what you're doing, man."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan," Zach said meekly. "I wasn't paying attention. I--"

She turned her back on them. Standing at the foot of the table, facing the row of plants lining the lab platform, she covered her eyes with one hand. The flashback's clarity had caught her completely unprepared. She was still breathing hard, ready to fight or run.

Two interns had turned around at Hodgins' voice. They stared suspiciously for a minute before turning back to a clipboard of notes.

I'm in the lab, Brennan told herself. I'm in the lab, and I'm perfectly fine. It's only Zach and Hodgins. What I felt was just the sudden firing of neuronal pathways, activated by a related sensory experience.

Zach was still talking. "I understand you sustained rib injuries. If I jolted them and caused you pain, I apologize. I didn't mean to."

Her ribs did hurt, now that she thought about it. The rapid straightening up had made them throb in protest.

"Yes--" she said mechanically. "But it's fine, Zach."

Zach had cause to doubt her statement. She was taking an inordinate amount of time to turn around, so perhaps her injuries were more painful than she wanted to admit. And he couldn't quite decipher the expressions on Hodgins' face, except for generalized anger when he looked at Zach, and generalized concern when he looked at Dr. Brennan.

After a few moments, she turned back as if nothing had happened, and asked about the marks he had found on the clavicle. She listened, nodding at Zach's assessment, told him "good work," and gave him a few suggestions for further analysis.

As soon as she had gone back to her office, Hodgins smacked Zach on the back of the head.

"Ouch!" He hunched his shoulders.

"What are you, a clumsy teenager?"

"It was an accident." Zach rubbed the back of his shaggy head.

"Look," Hodgins said in a low voice. "I don't think we're just talking about physical injuries here. I think--that," he gestured at the table, "triggered some post traumatic stress from their hostage scenario." Given what Angela had hinted, he thought, that was a portion of the truth, but something Zach would understand. "She seems to be doing fine, but you've got to be careful."

"Oh," Zach said. "I didn't realize. I thought for a moment she was going to strike me."

Hodgins saw that he did not realize at all. But that was for the best. "Just be extra polite for a while," he advised. "And don't invade her personal space. _Don't _come up behind her."

"No," Zach agreed. "I will not."

Hodgins turned, leaving the guy to his bone study. Zach called after him, "Can I assume that applies to Agent Booth as well? Except that I'm already alert to stay out of his personal space. It's a self-preservation instinct."

**

Angela walked down the sidewalk feeling some definite…dread. Yes, that was the word. She suspected she knew why Booth had asked her to lunch, and it couldn't be good. But… She rounded the corner so that the diner came into view. Come to think of it, she had some things to say to him.

He was seated at his and Brennan's usual table by the window. Angela slipped into the opposite chair, and they made small talk for a few minutes, about the weather, about something funny Zach had said, and about what to order for lunch. Then they sat waiting for their food. Booth kept sliding the salt and pepper shakers around each other, like he was playing god at a square dance.

Angela looked out the window. She swirled the ice in her water glass.

"Okay, look," she said, in a no-nonsense tone. "Brennan is fine. She's not going to snap, she's not going to have a nervous breakdown. But you're kind of looking at her like she's…breakable. I can tell you she's more likely to get pissed off if you keep being so careful and over-protective." Booth had paused with the salt shaker tipped against his palm. "Probably our whole lab team is walking on eggshells around her," Angela went on, "even if Hodgins only knows the general outline of what happened, and Zach--well, it goes right over his head, like always. But getting that sort of low-level attention makes a person feel really…weird."

"I know," Booth finally spoke. "I'm getting it too."

Angela looked at him apologetically. "From the FBI? Yeah, we haven't seen you around the lab much anymore. I should be asking how you're doing."

"Ah, don't start in like Sweets," he groaned.

"All right, I know you're a big tough guy," Angela grinned. "But…I also know you like to fix things. Protect people." Her face was now completely serious. "And, in that situation, it was impossible to do. For the one person it would matter for the most."

Just then their sandwiches arrived, and Booth appreciated the brief excuse for silence.

After several bites, he took a sip of water. He swallowed. "Brennan… she said some stuff in the session with Sweets. Not much, just…" Booth put both elbows on the table. "Look, I have to know. It _was _just the one guy, right? Who…hurt her?"

"Yeah, I think so," Angela said gently. The lines on Booths' brows looked familiar. A lot like the ones that lingered on Brennan's face. "She didn't tell me much either, but what she did say…" Angela stabbed a stray piece of lettuce with her fork. "You know she kicked that guy Rawling in the crotch, right? So that was the end of that." She smirked with pride.

Booth nodded. "Yeah. That's our Bones." Then he looked out the window, and his voice went quiet. "When she came out of that room with them, Angela… She looked…shell-shocked. I've never seen her like that."

Angela listened in anguished silence. "You know, I told her once," Booth said, "it was just like she was a guy, being my partner. Because, it was weird at first--she's a woman and I'm a man--spending all our time together…But it's sort of like, we're two guys."

Angela considered. "I guess I can see that."

Then she smiled as Booth said, "Of course, Bones didn't really understand what I was saying. But…" He ran his hand through his hair and clenched a fist on the table. "God damn it," he hissed. "It wasn't like she was a guy back there. She would've been safe if she was a guy."

"Well, you hope so," Angela put in.

Booth was too preoccupied to be look disgusted. "Every time I look at her, I can't help but think…" He darted a look at Angela. "What those bastards got to-- I mean, how she must've--And I couldn't do anything!"

"Booth. You know she feels awful too. She couldn't prevent you from getting hurt either."

He shook his head, thinking, it was nothing.

"And you're doing something now," Angela insisted. "You're going to find those guys."

They sat for a moment, picking at their sandwiches. "Look, I know you won't want to hear this," she started, "but every time you look at her like that, you're reminding her of what happened. If you can't both get past it…pretty soon she might not to want to be around you anymore."

Angela wished she hadn't caused that torment in his eyes. "You don't think this could break up our partnership?"

"No--god, I hope not," Angela said. "But…it's a really hard thing."

"But we can be normal together," Booth reassured himself. "We went to visit that John Doe's family. We even argued, sort of, about evidence versus police work."

"Does the FBI have anything to say about your staying together?"

"They're probably going to let Sweets be a deciding factor," Booth said with distaste. "So I guess we really have to…cooperate with him."

The waitress came by with a pitcher of water. Angela watched several ice chunks plunk into her glass. She took a sip.

"I think there's this myth out there," she said. "That if a woman goes through something like this, sooner or later she's going to fold. But it's not reflecting reality." She met Booth's eyes. "Women are tough. Brennan is tough.

"I mean, yes," she conceded with a wave of her fork, "it's something that stays with you your whole life. Maybe you need to cry on your best friend's shoulder, or call in the middle of the night because of a bad dream. But you deal with it. You go on."

Booth's face registered alarm. "Bones said she wasn't having bad dreams."

Angela sighed. "Booth. Sweetie." She didn't often use endearments for the FBI guy, but they were warranted in this case. "I'm sorry, but I'd say she's doing better than you are."

----------------------

**Author's note:** More to come.

I think I know where this is going, but I'd be glad to consider suggestions. If you think of a conversation or event that would naturally follow from the scenario, feel free to tell me (although I'm still finding my way around the site, and hope I can find comments!) And thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Standard ones apply. I still do not own the characters. Although they, apparently, own an increasingly large portion of my brain.

**The Suspects in the Suite **part 3

That week, only the second one after their hostage experience, the partners had received an email message from Sweets. I apologize for the poor timing, he had written, but he had a last minute opportunity to attend a three-day psychology conference. He would be gone most of the week. He hated to leave in the midst of dealing with their very important issues, but he insisted that they call his cell, or have him paged, if they needed to talk to him for any reason. Plus, this would give them more time to reflect on those questions he had asked them to consider.

Ah, crap, Booth thought as he read. His relief at being free of Sweets started to crumble. What were we supposed to do again?

**

Brennan was working at her desk after lunch, when Booth strode in. "Come on, Bones, we're going to be late."

"What?"

"Revisiting the inn. You know, crime scene, interrogation, security tapes… I told you all this yesterday."

"I'm still not sure why my presence is necessary."

"They want us to look at the hotel's security footage," Booth said patiently, "so we can identify the three guys. Especially that mystery guard in the hallway. Come on," he urged, coming around her desk, "we want to get there a little early."

Normally, he wouldn't hesitate to haul her from her chair and usher her out the door, and she would yelp in protest, out of habit more than true annoyance. Booth reached out, but--what was he doing? He should not touch her. She did not need a man grabbing her.

He tried to make his gesture appear natural, while she looked up at him warily. "Um…being early…" he fumbled for his train of thought. "That way we can interview some of the employees before the rest of the FBI team gets there."

"You know we're not supposed to be actively investigating."

He'd been afraid of this: she would avoid leaving the lab. Although he couldn't blame her, he didn't want it to become a pattern. They had to get back to a normal routine.

"I know, but... this is how it works," he cajoled. "You and me. Out in the field… Solving cases with our unique combination of talents." Would his charm smile have any effect? "Come on… I need you there to cast your rational eye over the premises and tell me if there are any details I miss."

She did not smile, but her face had relaxed out of its mistrustful mode. Yes, he thought. I've still got it. For a second, her eyes might have sparkled at him.

"Besides," he said as she picked up her jacket, "we have to take full advantage of our Sweets-free week."

**

Two hours later, Booth was in a decidedly darker mood. Traffic had been slow, and they had not arrived in time to sneak in any interviews before the FBI showed up. Agents were now bustling around the building conducting the standard follow-up procedures, and Booth felt useless.

He paced up and down the hallway outside the security office, his initial pleasure at coaxing Brennan from the lab almost completely forgotten. They had spent the last half hour squinting at grainy black and white images from various security cameras. Now Bones had gone to get a drink of water and find the ladies room, while he loitered in the hall, glad to at least stretch his legs.

He was incensed by the primitive quality of the hotel's technology. No, it had not been difficult to pick out Anders and Rawling as they entered and left the suite, since there was a camera posted at the end of the corridor. But the picture quality was poor, and the cameras only recorded stills, at different time increments depending on the location.

Booth sighed loudly and peered out the window at the end of the hall. Its curtains were pulled back--that same damn fabric as the curtains in the room where they had been held. Booth turned his back on them.

Coming here had felt like embarking on a typical mission working as partners, but being back… It was making them both very anxious. His stomach had felt uneasy since they arrived, and Brennan's face had a tight, watchful expression. Even worse, he wasn't allowed to participate in the real investigation, but was expected to go home right after viewing the footage.

At least we were right, he thought, that the hallway security guy departed with the two criminals. But--damn this hotel!--the intermittent images made it hard to get a good view of him. He hoped Angela would be able to enhance the visuals, or even do some sketches, with added input from the two of them.

Booth looked up as Brennan reappeared. "Hey," he said. "I am so glad you noticed that insignia on the security guy's jacket. See, I told you coming here would be a good way to jog our memories or find clues that might be useful."

Brennan nodded gravely.

"It looked like some military badge," Booth went on, "that we can use to trace him to a particular branch. You know, contact headquarters with his picture, and hopefully get a name. Of course, the problem is--"

"The video quality," Brennan supplied. "Angela is talented, but if there aren't enough pixels in the original image…"

"Then we won't be able to see much more than a blur," Booth finished. Should he be gratified that they were completing each other's sentences?

Bones glanced around the hallway, probably wondering what they should be doing next. Her eyes strayed to the window--and flickered as she registered those familiar, ugly curtains.

"Well," Booth said quickly, "talking about evidence, it's nice when we're on the same page, Bones. Now--" He held out a hand, inviting her to precede him down the hall. "Let's go find some guilty-looking hotel people to interview."

**

"Of course, the privacy of our clientele is very important--"

"Oh, right," Booth said sarcastically. "You claim to be this high-class establishment, all luxurious and secure, but you spend all your money on some sculptured hedges outside, or fancy coffee machines in each room, rather than making sure people are actually safe, that they're not using your _private _suites as bases for federal crimes."

Booth took a breath after his tirade. He, Bones and the hotel's obsequious assistant manager were standing in another hallway, this time around the corner from the front desk, out of view from prying eyes. While the employees didn't know Booth wasn't part of the legitimate investigation team, he didn't want to take any chances.

"I can tell you," he threatened the nervous manager, "you're not getting away with having such dinosaur security equipment that we can't even get a clear mug shot off the footage. And," he was on a roll now, "if you don't improve your security, we'll shut you down." The man licked his lips nervously. "We might even let it slip to the media just what kind of clientele you've been welcoming

here."

"Of course, we're cooperating fully," the man stammered.

Booth wasn't even focused on getting information from him anymore. It was more addicting to rant. And now that he'd released a little anger, more was clamoring to get free. "So--what?" he kept bullying, "you 'cooperate' so well, that anyone with the money to pay can come in here and do whatever the hell they want?"

"No--we…" The man was already intimidated, but doing his best to recall hotel policies. "There are protocols in place… All our staff is instructed to report any suspicious behavior, or hints of illegal activities going on in the rooms--"

Booth had had enough. He grabbed the guy by his lapel and slammed him against the wall, holding him there with one forearm against the base of his neck. "I don't think you understand what I'm saying," Booth gritted. "You let drug-smuggling rapists and murderers into this so-called high-quality place, and now you have no idea about who Anders was calling, or who visited him, or where that private security guy came from?"

"No--sorry--I've told you everything I know," the employee gasped.

"Booth!" He felt Bones put her hand on his upper arm. "He doesn't know anything."

For a second, he took his eyes off the sputtering man to look at her. And in that glance, he realized what Angela had meant: people looking at you like you were damaged, like you were going to snap. Brennan's face showed wariness, concern, even fear--as if she was on guard to deal with whatever he was going to do.

Booth let the guy go with a frustrated grunt, and took a few strides down the hall to shake the anger out of his limbs. "I'm going to need copies of all the documents for myself," he said, still glowering. "Everything you're turning over along with the security footage--credit card information, phone records…"

"Yeah, fine," the man jumped in, eager to please. "Extra copies of everything--I'll go get them myself." He glanced nervously between the partners, hoping no one would stop him, and escaped down the hall.

Booth glanced toward Brennan again. She was still watching him like he was some new and unpredictable creature. She couldn't have thought he would actually hurt the guy…?

He sighed and pulled at his collar. What had been the point of even coming here? The security footage certainly hadn't warranted the trip. There wasn't any worthwhile information to be squeezed out of these clueless people. And, okay, he probably shouldn't have manhandled the guy, but--right now, he just really wanted someone to blame.

"I think I'll take a walk around," he announced. "See if anything else jogs my memory. I mean, there's that camera in the hallway outside the suite. You, um, want to come look at it?"

Brennan considered him. "I don't know if that would be wise, or exactly what it would accomplish," she answered slowly. "But…yes, I'll come along." Did she want to keep an eye on him, Booth wondered, to make sure he didn't do some other reckless thing?

**

It would have been a pleasant enough walk across the manicured grounds…except that they were retracing their steps from the day this all happened. They climbed up the same carpeted stairs, to the corridor outside the suite. Booth felt a little queasy, but tried to distract himself by studying the hallway--for what, he wasn't completely sure. Bones had put on her impassive crime scene face, scanning the floor as if for evidence.

Booth went to the corner where the security camera was mounted. He stretched up on his toes to examine it. "I don't believe it," he said. "This thing is dusty." Under the camera he noticed a round base, one that probably swiveled (if it wasn't so old and rusty), and the camera itself looked like it could zoom in for closer views. But no one had used these features when they would have mattered. No one had been paying attention.

Booth had an overwhelming desire to pull out his gun and shoot this useless camera. Right through its dumb glass eye.

But--damn. That would be bad. That would get his gun taken away, get him sent straight back to some shrink for evaluation.

He breathed in and out. He looked at Bones. "Find anything?" he asked. She shook her head. He watched her move to the window at the end of the hall, a window framed by--not again--those hideous curtains. She took note of where they overlooked the grounds, and inspected the windowsill, perhaps for fingerprints.

Booth really didn't feel good, standing in this hallway. He remembered the sting of the needle in his arm, and Rawling's fist bruising his diaphragm. The smug way Anders had prattled on. And Brennan…the men hustling her behind a locked door. His efforts to think, or act, despite the fog in his head and the nausea in his stomach. Except, had that been one of his symptoms? Or was he imagining it, because he felt sick right now?

"You don't want to go look around the suite too, do you?" Bones was looking at him from the window. Its backlighting cast her face in shadow, while tracing her hair with radiance.

"Um, no," he mumbled. "You're probably right, I don't think that would be such a good--" Suddenly he felt sure he would throw up. Turning, he went stumbling down the stairs.

"Booth!" Brennan's worried voice cried after him, but he wasn't going to stop. He pushed his way into the first bathroom he found, and into a stall, bracing his arms against the walls. He stood there shivering, half leaning over the toilet. Actually, he thought, why not stay in the hallway and puke all over that fancy hotel carpet? Serve them right.

But after a minute, he felt better. The worst of the nausea had passed. He realized that the tile on this wall and floor looked awfully familiar. Because--fuck. This was the same bathroom he'd hurried to once he'd gotten free of the handcuffs. How much of that day was he doomed to repeat?

Someone knocked on the door. It was Bones. "Booth? Are you all right?"

"Fine," he barked. He came out of the stall a little shakily, and ran some cold water to splash on his face.

Bones was waiting in the hallway when he emerged. The lines between her eyebrows were deeper than before, but this time she studied him in doctor mode. "Are you all right? Are you ill?" She raised one hand as if to touch his forehead, but he pulled back.

"No, I thought maybe I was, but I'm fine." Was that a lie? He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him. And Bones didn't look much better. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes glistened. Whether out of concern for him, or from her own flashbacks, he couldn't be certain.

"So…" He looked away from her. "Yeah, maybe it wasn't such a good idea to…come here and search around the hallway."

Bones opened her mouth. "And _don't _you say I told you so," he warned.

"I wasn't going to," she objected, looking hurt.

He found it easier to keep his eyes on the floor. "Why don't we just get out of here?" he suggested wearily. His anger had fizzled, leaving him tired and headachy. He just wanted to escape this place. A second time.

**

They sat in fretful silence on the drive back. Booth kept sneaking looks at Brennan, but most of the time she kept her face averted, looking out the window.

They were going past some open fields when she said, "I remembered something else. About the knife Rawling had. I can't recall if I told the police initially."

Good god, Booth thought. He had a knife too? Why didn't I know that?

"It was in a sheath on his calf," she continued. "The hilt was black, with these little crosstrees extending horizontally. I could have Angela make a reconstruction… maybe we could match it with something in the weapons database."

Booth's imagination was still churning up horrible thoughts about what could have happened behind that door. "That's good, Bones," he said weakly. "It's possible that's a military issue, and could be one step closer to tracking these guys down."

They went back to watching the scenery: highway road signs, shopping malls, subdivisions behind fences. Now Brennan cast glances at Booth when she thought he wouldn't notice. She was pondering his outburst of anger with the hotel manager. It was cause for concern. Certainly Booth had shown anger before in interrogations, but it was carefully harnessed and utilized. It was released like a channeled river, where its power would do the most good; for instance, to frighten the suspect into revealing crucial information. But this time…it was more like a river overflowing its banks. Haphazard, irrational, with no clear purpose. It was evidence, she thought, that he wasn't doing as well as he'd like to believe.

But perhaps she wasn't either. For example, she wanted to get out of this car. Her gluteal muscles already felt numb from sitting, and she was sick of people--Booth, Angela, FBI agents--looking at her in that careful way. Being back at the inn…it had catalyzed the release of too much cortisol in her body. For one thing, there had been too many people there. Unknown people. Men.

Walking down those corridors, as irrational as it was, she'd been afraid a door would open to reveal Anders or Rawling, who would grab her and drag her into the room with them.

Repressing a shudder, she centered herself back in reality, in Booth's car. She fiddled with an air vent on the dashboard, aiming it to blow cool air toward her. She felt Booth's gaze. She looked out the window again, where a row of trees flashed by too quickly to focus on.

Claustrophobia had not bothered her in years, but lately it had tried to reassert itself. That was, she supposed, a reasonable reaction to being held in a room against her will. Even though that room had been relatively large, the desire to escape persisted--away from any enclosing walls, into fresh air.

Several minutes passed, and the partners continued to trade covert glances. But then, they caught each other: their eyes met, mirroring worry and wariness. Brennan made a fed-up sound in her throat and tore her gaze back to the window.

"What?" Booth asked.

"Will you stop looking at me like that?"

"Bones--like what? I'm not doing anything." Shit, he thought. Was Angela right? He felt defensive now. "You're looking funny at me too."

"Me!" she exclaimed. "You're the one--" She didn't know what she was meaning to say. You're the one who's always so protective of me?--but as an accusation, it was all wrong. "I just mean…" She sighed and started over. "Why did you want to come out here?"

"I told you," Booth said, somewhat puzzled. "The security tapes--even though they turned out to be crap--and to see what information we could squeeze out of these hotel people." She continued to look doubtfully at him. "You don't believe me," he realized. "You think I had some ulterior motive?" His voice rose. "What could I possibly have wanted by going back to that place?"

"I don't know, maybe…that's some FBI technique," she groped, "to get people agitated and emotional so that they think they remember things, or start fighting with their partner instead of being overly nice."

Booth tried to get his head around her bizarre logic. "You think I dragged you out here to provoke you into fighting with me? Bones, that makes no sense. Just because Sweets said we were being too polite with each other…"

"But you like it when we're not," she insisted. "You _like _to provoke me. You tell me to stop being so rational all the time. Maybe this is your way of accomplishing that."

"Bones…that is a seriously screwed up theory." But, he thought, she can't possibly be right, can she?

"It's like--" she was inspired, "a child who feels he's lacking attention, and so does something bad, because negative attention is better than none at all."

"Is that how you see me?" Booth said incredulously. "A child craving attention?"

"Sometimes?" she shrugged. "That's not an unfair assessment."

"Great, Bones. That's just great. Thanks a lot." There was no way she could miss the sarcasm in his voice. She turned sullenly back to the window.

Booth was extremely irritated, but he couldn't shake the tiny suspicion she was right. It's true we've been avoiding each other…and do I just want to get a reaction out of her? Would I rather she get upset, as a change from her typical rational mode? Because I don't have such a rational mode, so if I'm fed up with hers, I… want to shake her out of it?

His thoughts, and his gut, were still a roil of unease. He hadn't come to any conclusions when, a few minutes later, Brennan burst out with something else.

"Booth--If you had let me knock the gun out of his hand right away, maybe none of this would have happened."

"Bones, if you had done that," he jumped in, "one of us would probably be dead right now. They had two guns, remember? _And _you just told me there was a concealed knife on top of everything else."

"Then I should have had a gun, like I keep telling you. And you don't know that--maybe we couldn't stopped them, if we acted fast enough. Maybe they wouldn't have gotten away, and--"

"No, Bones, we're talking point-blank range here! It was too risky. But you, you had to go taking more risks, fighting them, getting yourself injured, and--my personal favorite--pissing them off with your whole monkeys-DNA, law-of-the-jungle thing. Cause that's really not helping the situation."

"You mean orangutans," she corrected automatically. "They're apes, not monkeys, I don't know why people always make that mistake. But--you tried to fight them too! You're all about using violence when it's warranted. And…" she was frowning, still processing his complaints. "What are you saying? You're not suggesting I gave them the idea? You're not suggesting it's somehow a woman's own fault if she's raped?"

"No, of course not, I would never--I never meant that," Booth tried to explain. "It's just--they would probably use any excuse to hurt. Or, they didn't _need _an excuse because they're twisted bastards."

They fell back into troubled silence. Booth noticed her eyes had gotten shiny again. Why, he berated himself, why did I say that? I just meant…she has that habit of saying the wrong thing. The insensitive or inflammatory thing, whether we're dealing with suspects, co-workers, or a victim's family. And she doesn't learn, he thought with an aggravated sort of affection. She doesn't censor herself. She takes those risks, runs right over those rules. Always speaks her mind.

That's something those bastards couldn't scare out of her. They could tie us up, punch me in the gut and threaten her, and she still stood up to them.

But…he thought about what else she had said just now. These partial accusations they had thrown at each other. Brennan had said, he was all about using violence. (He failed to register the important qualification 'when it's warranted.')

Booth flicked on the windshield-washer fluid, to scrape off a bug that had died on the glass. They were still only about halfway through the drive. It seemed to be taking a very long time.

"So," he cleared his throat. "Do you want to go right back to the lab, or stop at the FBI building first?" She didn't seem to be listening. She was bouncing one leg in a twitchy way. "Or…" he said carefully, "I could take you straight home instead."

"No," she said. "Booth…" She took a very deep breath, almost like she was drowning, and suddenly demanded, "Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car! I'm getting out."

"Are you gonna be sick? Because--"

"Just--will you stop, please? Now."

"Okay, yes," he sputtered, looking for a place to pull over. "Kind of on the highway here." Was she going to throw up? Or hyperventilate? Did he have any paper bags for her to breathe into?

Luckily they were approaching a turn-off, where a frontage road joined the highway, near the entrance to a subdivision. He braked and turned, the wheels crunching on gravel. Bones was yanking on the door handle almost before the car had stopped. She snatched her bag from the floor and was out the door, walking away.

"Bones! What the hell?" He switched on the hazard lights and got out after her. She was striding toward the subdivision, the chilly breeze fanning out her hair.

He hurried after. "Are you okay? What's going on?"

"I--just need to get out, walk for a while," she said without looking back.

"Bones," he said helplessly. "I don't…"

She turned around. "I'm fine. Just go, leave me." She shooed him with her hands. "Go home. I'll see you later." She started walking again, passing the tall sound-proofing fence that had been installed between the houses and the highway.

Booth stood irresolutely at the side of the road. Would it be best to do what she said, or was it one of those times she subconsciously wanted him to do the opposite?

"Bones, wait." She did not slow down.

Shit. No. He would not just let her go. Would not drive away and leave her. He ran to catch up, walking just behind her. "I am not abandoning you in the middle of nowhere."

"It's not the middle of nowhere." She kept looking straight ahead, marching past houses framed by shade trees.

"What--are you going to walk all the way back?"

"I might."

"That's at least five miles."

No answer. She was a couple steps ahead of him again, but he could not let her go. "Will you just stop for one second and explain--" That was all the farther he got, because he had reached out and closed his hand on her arm. He knew it was a mistake as soon as he touched her.

In an instant, she had jerked her arm up and around, breaking his hold and shoving him away in the same motion. She whirled to face him, limbs braced, ready to fight. He fully believed she could have done more than push him off: twisted his arm, knocked him to the ground--out of instinct, or training, or just plain anger--but she held back.

Still, she had startled both of them. He raised both palms, acknowledging that he had overstepped. "Okay," he said, as if soothing a horse that might bolt. "Okay, I'm sorry."

Brennan stepped back, consciously relaxing her posture. She felt a little abashed, and the defeat in his eyes tugged at her. "I'm sorry," she echoed. "I just want to walk, that's all. Get away from…people."

He nodded slowly. He could understand that. Even if he was one of those people. "Well…do you at least have your phone, so you could call a cab or something?

"Yes." She had taken another step away from him.

"Okay," Booth said again. "Just…will you promise you'll call me when you get home? Just to check in."

"All right," she agreed.

Then, after a moment, they turned simultaneously, so they wouldn't have to watch the other walk away.

-------

Author's note: Cliffhanger? Sorry. Have I exceeded my quota of angst yet? But it must mount to a peak before it can ease, right?

I must admit to getting completely obsessed with reading or writing these stories. They're starting to keep me awake at night, in a good way. It's also good, in a sense, that right now I am under-employed and penniless, because it gives me time to write.

Thanks for the thoughtful comments from reviewers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Dear readers:**

I must mention an article I have been reading while writing this story. It makes me a little proud and more than a little guilty, because I have been trying hard to avoid the stereotypes it describes. It's "The Collapsible Woman: Cultural response to rape and sexual abuse," by Vanessa Veselka, from Bitch magazine, Winter 1999. Here's the link: /article/the-collapsible-woman

I also have to wonder why, over my years of imagining fan fiction storylines, I find appeal in my favorite female characters going through such things as getting shot or sexually assaulted. Does it make me a bad feminist? No, I think I have some leeway, because this IS fiction. And fiction writers (books or TV) can inflict things on their characters that they'd never wish on real-life people.

We also give a character like Brennan tough things to handle, because we want to see how she does it. She IS Wonder Woman: brilliant and beautiful and a black-belt in karate. Doesn't she ever feel vulnerable, and where does her strength come from? This kind of story brings her into our heads from the screen, making her a little less perfect and a little more reachable.

All right, enough essay writing, and on to the story. This section has a lot of internal action; we'll get back to external kind later. Don't worry, there's plenty of angst to go around.

**Part 4**

Booth waited in the car a good twenty minutes after his partner had walked away. Just in case she changed her mind. He kept glancing in the direction she had gone, and repeatedly took his phone out of his pocket and then put it back. If she wanted to call him, she would. She'd meant business when she'd pushed him away. He had to respect that, and not force himself on her, even if care and protection were the things he was forcing.

**

He went to the firing range when he got back. He had wanted to shoot the hotel security camera, and the urge to blast things had not dissipated. He checked out several of the biggest, baddest guns they would loan him. After warming up with the usual shots, he got fancy. Hitting the mark left handed. With one eye closed. After turning his back, then whirling with split-second aim.

At some point, it dawned on him that _he _was sort of like that security camera. It could only watch what was unfolding from its little wall mount. Handcuffed in the suite, he had been a dumb eyeball. Worthless lens, tethered to a post, observing. Unable to take action.

Booth slid back the gun barrel and set another cartridge into place. Oh, the shrinks would love this, he thought. He wished his brain could erase the comparison now that it had been made.

**

When he checked his cell phone later, he had a message from Bones. 'Booth,' she said simply, 'I'm home. It was… refreshing to walk. I'm sorry I worried you.'

No, he hadn't been worried. He had only been imagining all the things that could have happened to her after he drove away. Twisting her ankle. Getting lost, or hit by a car. Being abducted by some new breed of psycho.

**

Brennan calculated it would take her about two hours to get back from where Booth had let her off. That was almost double the time it should have taken to walk in a straight line, but she was unfamiliar with this area, and the streets were not designed to be pedestrian friendly. She had to backtrack more than once to find a route that did not involve crossing a multi-lane highway or walking along a narrow shoulder.

But she was glad to walk. She wore comfortable shoes; she had sunglasses and water in her bag. Her ribs had healed past the acute stage, and their occasional twinges were tolerable.

About forty minutes into the hike, she stopped in a gas station to use the bathroom and check a map. She knew roughly where she was, but wanted to confirm, and she estimated it would be another few miles before she reached recognized roads.

Setting off again, she breathed deeply of the cool air. This was what she needed, after the stress of revisiting the hotel. Being in that place again…it had retraced still-too-recent neural pathways. Very unpleasant neural pathways.

But the simple challenge of getting home kept her mind occupied, at least for the first portion of the trip. I was right to walk, she thought, even if it made Booth agitated. He still worried her. She would have to ask Cam or Angela to help keep an eye on him, since they possessed better interpersonal and intuitive skills.

A short time later, she found herself on a suburban sidewalk, with pleasant two-story houses, tall old trees, and bicycles propped against fences. There was a runner, a man, approaching her on the opposite side of road. Brennan was glad it was not her side, because her first instinct might have been to avoid him by crossing over. She did not want to be that close to the moving power of his muscles. She did not want to feel the breeze of his passing or risk smelling his sweat.

The man was about her age. He wore wrap-around sunglasses, a long-sleeved shirt and skimpy black running shorts. His quads, she noted with scientific detachment, were well-defined, and the muscles stood out with each stride: the tear-drop shaped vastus medialis just above the knee, the slight bulge of the vastus lateralis on the outside, and in the center the long stretch of the rectus femoris.

She often looked at other runners who shared her customary routes near her apartment. Sometimes she would turn, as they went by, to admire their posterior muscles as well. Or she might enjoy ogling a man or two in karate (subtly, of course), or in the gym's free weight area.

But this time was different. She did not look at this runner out of interest or attraction. Yes, he was a decent specimen. Beyond that, she did not care to look or form opinions.

In a moment the man had moved beyond her peripheral vision. She waited at a corner for several children to coast by on bicycles, laughing and calling to one another.

As Brennan crossed the street, she mused that this lack of sexual interest was a natural result of what had happened. But it was a temporary disruption. Her interest would reassert itself, given time.

That was the rational response. The emotional response, fighting for supremacy in her brain, was anger. Those bastards had had too much of an effect on her well-being. It would not last forever, but at the moment it was very uncomfortable. She was angry about the unfounded fear she had felt--it was just a guy out for a run! But that kind of quotidian event now had the power to intimidate her.

Brennan walked faster, fueled by negative energy. Ahead, the homes gave way to soccer fields. Parks always offered people-watching opportunities, and she was grateful for the distraction. After-school soccer practice was in full swing. On the field closest to her, groups of twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls were practicing drills. They ran between cones and kicked soccer balls, their colorful shin guards flashing and ponytails bouncing.

As with any group of adolescents, Brennan noted, these girls were in various stages of development: some with slender child's bodies, others with new breasts and subcutaneous fat rounding their previous straightness.

She suddenly felt old and experienced. What do these girls know? she wondered. They are so young: the smooth skin and freshness of new cells, undamaged, unworn. Have they broken bones? Kissed a boy? Learned to use a tampon?

They don't know that things can change so unexpectedly. They don't know that your family can leave in a car one day and never come back. Or that criminals can shoot a twenty-three year old girl in the head. And that when you investigate, they can drug you, or tie you up, or force you to have sex.

One of the soccer girls kicked a ball squarely into the net, with a satisfying thunk and swish. Well, Brennan thought, they probably know more than I did at that age. My adolescence was not entirely typical. It involved fewer social events and more science projects. Growing up is different now: an accelerated process, with less time for innocence.

As she came to the edge of the playing fields, she felt a strong affection for these girls, even though they were strangers. She wanted to protect each and every one of them into the future, against injury, crime, or heartbreak. She and Booth could cover some of them. For the rest, they could assign FBI agents who could trail them…for the next twenty years?

Yes, that was absurd. But… these girls were part of the reason she and Booth did what they did. Why they took risks -- to keep the world free of people like Rawling and Anders.

**

When Brennan got home, she pulled off her shoes, and went to the kitchen to heat up some leftover tofu stir fry. Before eating, she called Booth as promised. His voicemail clicked on, so she left a short message. After she'd cleared the dishes, she chose a CD of Native American flute music, and started the shower.

Showers were still unsettling. Being alone with her body was not the same as it had been. Here in the tranquil confines of her bathroom… standing in her white tile shower, shielded by the turquoise curtain… her hands, with soapy lather, sliding over her skin… She could not help but recall: This was where Anders had touched her. And here, and here.

Rawling's marks were not so bad. They were associated purely with pain rather than sex, and were thus easier to understand, easier to deal with. But Anders…it was as if the trace oils left by his hands were a semi-permanent dye -- one she could feel rather than see. It would take time for her flesh to forget his taint. But it would fade. In time it would.

Warm water pooled around her feet before swirling down the drain. She looked down at her naked body. It appeared the same, now that the surface bruises had healed. But it was not the same, because of how those men had made her feel. How, she thought, how can a single person or event have such an intense, yet intangible effect on me?

Anders had not looked at her like a whole person. More like an appealing piece of flesh that existed for his pleasure. Like an air-brushed, silicone-breasted centerfold in magazines of male masturbatory aids.

But it was about power as much as sex. Anders had compelled her passivity with threats. He had liked seeing her struggle with the instinct to resist.

Brennan turned the water to hot, and watched stream rise toward the ceiling. This culture still persuaded a woman that her body was an object to be looked at, rather than an instrument of her own action in the world. The soccer players she had seen today--participating in sports could only help them, but they were entering puberty now--they would have to contend with all these messages that ricocheted through the cultural network.

Brennan closed her eyes and let the water pepper her face, until it almost hurt. No, she told herself. She would not let that man's influence separate her from her own body.

She wrapped her arms around her torso, warm and slick under the shower spray. My body, she thought fiercely. Mine.

She focused on what she felt under her crossed arms. My clavicle, my ribs. My breasts. My heart.

**

That night Booth had a disturbing dream. He'd already had a string of them, and being back at that hotel had not helped the situation. Returning from the firing range, he hadn't felt like doing much other than watching some TV and going to bed early.

The dream started out well enough. It started as a sex dream. He was in bed with Rebecca, one of those periodic guilty pleasures they'd both promised they'd stop. There he was, pumping away, getting more excited…but the dream was foggy. It wasn't clearly Rebecca with him. There wasn't much physical sense of a woman at all. It was more like he was alone, nothing but sheets and pillows touching him. He started getting frustrated, trying to move faster, harder--

Then that part of the dream dissolved, and he was seeing Brennan sitting on a bench along the wall. The room was dark with shadows, but he knew she was crying. Cam and Angela were there, angry and accusing. Somehow Booth knew that he was the reason Bones was crying. With horror, he realized _she _was the woman he'd been having sex with. Against her will. Booth tried to protest--it was Rebecca, wasn't it? No, he was alone. But he couldn't have done something like that without knowing! How could he, he would never--

Booth woke up with tears on his face. He was so relieved it was only a dream, but that didn't stop the few moments of shocked tears that insisted on flowing. When had he had a dream that made him cry? Actually, once: a nightmare that Parker had died. He'd never forget that one, and probably not this one either. The sound of Brennan crying in the darkness…

He rolled out of bed to get a drink of water. What the hell? he thought, standing over the bathroom sink. It was his guilt over what had happened, that was all. His brain had somehow twisted it into _direct _culpability for the…things…that Brennan had endured. Because it couldn't be that…

Booth went back to his bed and flopped down. He stared at the bars of light the window blinds cast onto his ceiling. Could it be that--he winced away from the thought--he was somehow jealous, because those criminals had done what he hadn't? _Did _he just want to have sex with Brennan, whether or not she wanted to? Yes, he did. But not, _not_ if she was unwilling. He would never hurt her. She was his partner, and he was always a gentleman.

Booth turned over and crammed his face into the pillow. No matter how much he tried to bury it, another thought kept stubbornly surfacing: Now I'll never get to sleep with her. It had never been very likely, he supposed, but now…

If only he had some magic power to undo what had been done. He could press tenderness against her skin, instead of cruelty. He could murmur joy against her ear, instead of menace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:** I realize this section might jump around a little in point of view. But omniscient narrators are quite useful. And I suppose I like playing god with my (borrowed) characters. But am I essentially a benevolent god…? We shall see.

Oh, and thanks to my dad the anatomy professor (although I doubt he's going to read this), for telling me the mnemonic device for the wrist bones. Maybe I should have pursued a career like Brennan's, instead of being a frustrated and starving writer -- but less frustrated thanks to all of you!

**Part 5**

For the rest of that week, Booth resolved to throw himself into work. It would take some craftiness, to covertly continue his own search for the criminals, while working the actual cases assigned to him. Not murder cases -- he wasn't given the serious stuff while he was still "under observation" following his "captivity experience." So, he dealt mostly with petty crimes and background checks.

Agent Fleming was doing a decent job keeping him in the loop. The day after revisiting the hotel, Booth got a call from him.

"We got a hit off the description of one of the suspects," he reported, and Booth sat up straight behind his desk.

"Some guy matching Anders was detained at a border crossing into Canada. But--" Fleming paused. "It's no good. It looks like his ID checks out, and they're about to let him go."

"Are they sure--" Booth began.

"I've got his driver's license photo on my computer," Fleming said. "Give me a second and I'll send it to you."

Booth clicked his inbox and waited. After a moment the attachment popped up. The man had similar features, the same short grayish hair, but his face was heavier, and no smugness lurked behind his eyes.

"No," Booth said gruffly. "You're right. Not Anders."

"Look, I'm sorry, man. You know how long these things can take. And these guys have probably been scared underground, since they came so close to getting caught. They'll be forced to stop their smuggling operation, now that you exposed it. We can be glad about that, at least."

"Yeah," Booth muttered.

"So, do you think they're going to go their separate ways," Fleming questioned, "or risk sticking together?"

"I don't know about that hallway security man," Booth said, "but I bet Rawling and Anders are sticking together. Seemed like they'd been working together a while. They had this creepy buddy-buddy thing going on. You know, non-verbal communication…and god knows what else."

**

Later that day, Booth was scrolling through one of the Bureau's databases when his cell phone buzzed against the desk. He opened it, and saw with trepidation that it was Bones. Twenty-four hours ago he had left her at the side of the road. But when he answered, she was all business; there was no mention of the previous day's events.

"Zach and I finished the analysis of our John Doe," she announced. "My suspicions were right. From the medical records the families sent us last week, I was able to confirm his identity as Bruce Mitchell."

"Mitchell," Booth echoed. "We have to inform his brother."

"Yes, because I also found cause of death. The damage to the skull and cervical vertebrae are consistent with a fall down a steep grade, as are the injuries on the ribs and pelvis."

Booth got up and paced around his office, thinking. "The body was found at the bottom of a ravine in a remote nature area. And the brother said he liked to go hiking by himself. Can we be sure the death was accidental?"

"You know there's no absolute certainty," Brennan reminded him, "but I'm reasonably sure, yes. There were no signs of foul play. The damage to the outside of the cranium, and the staining on the inside, suggest a blow to the head, consistent with a fall. It would have caused swelling and bleeding into the cranial vault, and probably proven fatal within a couple of hours.

"Hodgins analyzed the particulates that were catalogued with the remains," she continued. "Based on soil and plant residue embedded in the victim's shoes, he confirmed that time of death was in autumn, the same season the victim went missing. And the soil is a match for the hiking area where he was found."

Booth was nodding. "I talked to the local police and park rangers who led the search after he was reported missing, but they didn't go far enough to canvas that area of the park. At the time, it looked like he had some enemies related to his work who might've wanted to do him in, so that's where they focused their efforts. But since he never told anyone if he was planning to go on a hiking trip, they ended up declaring him missing after the suspects' alibis checked out."

Booth sighed. Solving the mystery didn't make him feel as satisfied as he would've liked, but at least this time they didn't have to track down a murderer.

"So, Bones, can I pick you up at the lab, so we can tell this poor guy's brother what happened to him? I promise to help with the paperwork afterward."

She agreed.

**

The brother, Sam Mitchell, took the news relatively well. "That's how Bruce would've wanted to go," he said. "Hiking out there, enjoying the solitude. But he always was a clumsy kid. You say he probably tripped into that ravine?"

The partners nodded. They sat on a couch across from the middle-aged man, in a living room filled with an abundance of potted plants. Bones assured Mitchell that it had happened quickly; his brother would've been knocked out and never woken up.

Mitchell showed them a photo of Bruce, grinning from the top of some mountain. It had been nearly ten years since he'd disappeared, but as Brennan knew, it was not necessarily a relief to learn that a family member was dead. She told Mitchell this, briefly describing the situation with her own mother, and Booth was proud of her for saying the right thing.

**

Afterward, he invited her to the diner for pie. "Okay, well, I know you don't like pie," he amended, as they drove back toward the Jeffersonian. "But coffee, tea, something."

For a minute he was sure she would refuse, but she said, "Yes, it is the customary thing to do when we solve a case."

**

They sat in silence at their usual table by the window. Brennan watched Booth pick at his half-eaten slice of apple pie. He was wearing shades of green today: a faded army jacket over a forest green t-shirt. The colors turned his eyes an even darker shade of brown.

He caught her gazing at him. "Look, Bones," he spoke softly. "I'm sorry for the things I said in the car yesterday. I shouldn't have--"

"Booth, it's okay," she said a little too quickly. "You don't have to apologize. We were both under stress. The effects on our limbic and adrenal systems from being back at the place where--" she broke off, and looked out the window rather than at him. "I'm sorry too, for what I said."

Did you mean it? he wanted to demand. Don't you blame me for not taking action? I need to know!

Before he could summon the courage to pursue the question, she looked at her watch and said, "I should get back to the lab. We're getting--did I mention?--a 2,000 year old skeleton from Britain." Her eyes lit with enthusiasm, and even if it wasn't as bright as usual, Booth was pleased to see it.

"It's amazingly well-preserved," she said, suddenly talkative, "despite the highly acidic soil over much of the country. And we're lucky to acquire it; usually they would never send around a specimen like this, but I heard there was a sizable favor that one director owed another." She gathered her jacket and purse. "I want to get a look at it when it arrives, then I'll start my analysis tomorrow."

"Okay," Booth said, attempting a smile. "Go study your bones."

He watched her leave the diner and walk down the street. He was glad she had the zest for discovery. Why, then, did he also feel abandoned?

He poked his fork at the pie crust until it fell into crumbled pieces. Sure, Bones, he thought uncharitably. We can just sweep it under the rug again. Like you do with all emotions you don't want to feel: you go spend time with dead people, instead of living ones here, who seriously need to talk to you.

**

Brennan stood over the same lab table that had recently housed the remains of Anders' victim, Miranda Charles. She was focused now on what the bones of this--British? Roman?--citizen could tell her.

The bright, high-ceilinged room exuded quiet. She breathed it in, glad she had it the space all to herself. Yesterday the halls had been crammed with museum employees, from directors to interns, who'd wanted a glimpse of this skeleton.

The body was about eighty percent complete--a miracle, given the soil conditions and the specimen's age. Archeologists had plucked it from under the bulldozers and backhoes of a development project. Although they'd compiled careful reports about the context of the find, Brennan would not look at the notes until she had completed her analysis, so as not to be biased by any prior suggestion.

After gauging the usual markers for gender, age and height, she began her close survey of each bone. She worked her way down the humerus, then the radius and ulna, examining the points of muscle attachment. Continuing toward the wrist, she searched for signs of injury or repetitive stress, markers that could indicate an occupation, whether warrior or farmer.

The individual wrist bones came next. Although the left side was missing most of the lower arm and hand, here on the right were the eight perfect carpal bones. Brennan fingered them, making sure they lay in correct orientation to each other. Before picking them up to examine, she mentally named each one: scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform. Trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate. She thought of the mnemonic device her old professor had taught them: Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle. She hadn't needed to use it since those initial months as a student, but it could still make her smile.

After all, she was in her element. The work calmed and centered her. Yes, it helped that this man was two millennia old; he had no murderer to arrest, no family to mourn him. But the challenge also thrilled her: there were so many pieces to analyze, factors to consider, and possibilities to accept or discard. Sometimes it overwhelmed, but, as she knew from experience, she would simply take things one step at a time.

"Dr. Brennan?" came a voice from the doorway. It was Camille, and Brennan got the sense she'd been standing there a few moments before she said anything. "I hate to take you away from your latest find, but do you have a few minutes? To talk?" Brennan glanced once between Cam and the skeleton, as if deciding who she would rather spend time with, then nodded and peeled off her sterile gloves.

Cam led the way to the lounge above the main lab. She went to the mini-fridge in the corner and retrieved two bottles of water, offering one to Brennan. She took it, and asked, "Is this about a case?"

"No," Cam said, "it's…personal."

Brennan frowned. "Booth?"

"No, I haven't had a chance to talk to him recently. You only just asked us to keep an eye on him," Cam pointed out. "But you're right, Angela and I were going to do so anyway. And I'm going to the Bureau tomorrow, to see if I can be of further use to them in this investigation. But…that's not why I'm here."

The two women sat down on the couches, the glass coffee table between them reflecting the crisscrossing beams on the ceiling.

"I couldn't decide if I should even bring this up," Cam started. She made a crisp figure against the couch, dressed in slim black pants and a matching jacket. But Brennan noticed how agitated she seemed, passing the bottled water from one hand to the other, and making eye contact less frequently than usual. "Well, as Angela said, what could it hurt. So…" Cam took a breath. "Something happened to me when I was younger, and… I thought there was a possibility it could help you, to hear it."

Now Brennan looked concerned. "Did you experience a sexual assault?"

"No," Cam said a little wryly, "but your directness is admirable. It…was not violent, it was…a close call, maybe. But I want to say up front," she leaned slightly forward, "that I know it's weird and presumptive to ever tell someone you know how they feel. So I'm not claiming that. Maybe there are similar elements with what happened to you, and maybe there aren't. I'm just offering a scenario, and you can take from it what you will."

Her dark eyes held a cautious intensity, and since this seemed important to her, Brennan nodded. "I understand. Caveat accepted."

Cam put her water on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch. "It was the first year I was a cop. I was dating this guy who worked the same precinct. Or, maybe not dating. We went out about twice. We had drinks. We ended up back at my place. I guess…I was more flattered than anything, because he was the one who asked me in the first place. He was attractive, but I realize now I was probably just going along with it for the excitement."

She reached forward to pick up the water again. "So, there we were making out at my apartment…and I was fine with it, up to a point. But I quickly realized that he intended to sleep with me, but I did not intend to with him. Yet… I still went along with it." A note of exasperation had crept into her voice. "That's what gets me to this day. And it's been hard to…forgive myself." She paused, elbows resting on her knees, looking at the plastic bottle in her hands. A corner of the paper label had come loose, and she picked at it with one finger.

Brennan listened carefully, feeling an odd mix of empathy, curiosity and fear.

"I did finally stop it," Cam said, "at about the last possible minute before doing the deed. And he wasn't happy, I can tell you, but it never actually got violent. He was just very… persistent and persuasive." She glanced ruefully up at Brennan. "I was a New York cop, for god's sake--albeit a rookie--but I couldn't tell a guy to back off? I guess I wasn't prepared for conflict in the bedroom. Outside of it, sure, but not inside."

Some lovers, Brennan thought unexpectedly, try positions that they can't handle.

"I…" Cam sighed. "I felt bad about it for a long time. I guess I still do. You know, just… Why didn't I stand up for myself better? Do a better job of understanding and articulating what I wanted? I mean… Why did I make myself go along with it?"

Brennan, who had been fiddling with her own water bottle, went very still.

"What I remember is…" Cam stared at the reflective coffee table. "The feeling of hands on you. Where they should not be. Or at least, much sooner than you expected them to be. It was the audacity of this guy, like he had the right to do this." She was shaking her head with residual outrage.

When she looked back at Brennan, she saw that her posture had gone tense and self-contained. She held her elbows close to her sides, her fingers squeezing the plastic water bottle hard enough to dent it.

Camille decided to plow ahead. "I told myself I'd learned from it, and would never get into that position again. Maybe I was too careful around men for a year or so, but…eventually… I got my confidence back. Enough to take my chosen date home right away, if I wanted to."

Brennan's cool blue gaze, above the indigo lab coat, remained cloudy. "Okay--" Camille gave a smile that was part grimace, and glanced toward the leafy plants lining the platform. "I really didn't mean to tell you my life story. And I know, I said I would just present the events without lecturing. But the point is…"

She looked Brennan in the eye. "We should be gentle with ourselves when we're in a new situation. All right, maybe I could have handled it differently. But essentially, it was that--damn guy--" (she wanted to call him something worse) "who should never have pushed me to do something I wasn't comfortable with.

"And," Cam took a breath, "you'd like to think you learn for the next time, but the truth is, things never repeat the way you think. It's always different or unexpected. It catches you unprepared."

Brennan finally spoke. "That is a valid description of life's randomness and tendency toward entropy."

Camille might have laughed, in a different context. Instead she said, "I wanted to tell you one other thing. You and Booth. I think you did everything right, when you were confronted with that situation in the hotel room. That's my official cop opinion, and my friend opinion. You didn't get away unscathed," Cam's eyes were suddenly too bright, "but you did get away. That's what counts."

Brennan nodded, her own eyes shimmering a little. "I know that story was hard to reveal, and I appreciate it. It did share some similar elements with what I experienced."

They looked at each other a moment longer. Then Cam sniffed and brushed at her cheek. "Look at us," she said dryly. "Girl-bonding and tragedy in the lounge of the Jeffersonian." They both stood up, intending to head back to work.

"Cam?" Brennan hesitated. The distressed lines between her brows were back. "Will you tell that to Booth? I mean, not all of it, but the part about how we did everything right."

Camille studied her, and nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Thank you." Something about Cam's eyes, Brennan thought, reminded her of Booth. Most likely the color: warm and decadent, like melted chocolate.

The two women started down the stairs together, back to the main lab. "You've already been beneficial to this case," Brennan offered. "I know Booth thinks so too. Helping to work things out between the local PD and the FBI. Maybe you could have new career as a diplomat."

Cam smiled at the compliment, then rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Having to be nice to loads of well-dressed people with conflicting agendas, rather than staying here, up to my elbows in the sloughing skin cells and melting viscera of decomposing bodies? No contest."


	6. Chapter 6

Hello all,

Ready for more angst in the next installments? Things have to get worse before they can get better. Stay tuned.

**Part 6**

Before the week was out, Booth had received calls to his office from Angela, Camille and even Hodgins. They all made friendly small talk and told him they missed seeing him at the lab. After about five minutes on the phone with Hodgins, Booth demanded, "All right. Which of them put you up to this? Cam or Angela?"

"What?" Hodgins fumbled, faking surprise. "I, uh…"

"Come on, conspiracy boy," Booth warned. "Don't bother trying to deny it."

"Fine," he sighed. "I concede. I think…it was actually Dr. Brennan who asked them. But they would've done it anyway. We really do miss you, man."

Bones? Booth wondered. Should he be touched, or annoyed? But this also looked like more proof she was avoiding him and didn't want to talk.

"Hey," Hodgins had changed the subject. "Can you still come out to my place on Saturday? Not this weekend, the one after."

"Your place?" Booth frowned at his computer screen, where the latest petty criminal's driving record was displayed.

"Yeah, I know we had the date picked out a long time ago as the only one everyone could do…And Angela didn't think we should cancel, so as long as you're still up for it…"

Booth remembered now. Ever since Hodgins' secret wealth had been discovered, they all (or at least Booth and Cam) had been teasing him about it. He'd finally invited the whole team over -- out of frustration as much as generosity, so Zach would stop complaining that he had never seen "the main house."

"Next Saturday," Booth said. "No, I can't. It turns out I can have Parker that day, and I promised to take him to the aquarium."

"Oh. Well, it won't be the same without you. But that should be a cool trip. Kids love that stuff --every species of fish or shark you could imagine. _I_ love that stuff."

There was a moment of silence on the phone. Then Hodgins said tentatively, "Does, um, does he know about what happened? Your kid?"

A part of Booth wanted to yell at him to mind his own business. But the guy did seem sincerely concerned. "No," he said curtly. "Rebecca insisted. And to be honest, I couldn't really think of what to say about it."

"Yeah," Hodgins said. "Would just freak him out, probably."

"Rebecca too," Booth realized. "She doesn't even know all the details."

"Probably smart, man," Hodgins agreed. "That can be some tricky shit, dealing with exes."

**

Camille called Booth again on Friday. "Are you watching the hockey playoffs tomorrow?" she asked.

"Oh." He'd almost forgotten. "Yeah, I guess so."

"What do you say we watch it together, on that big screen TV of yours? I'll bring the food, you get the beer." Booth didn't answer right away. "Come on," Cam urged. "You can teach me more about the drop pass, or that delayed offside thing."

"Sure," Booth said. If this was a blatant attempt on Camille's part to check on how he was doing, he was actually grateful for it. He could probably use the company. Watching the game would be a reprieve from the numbing routine he'd been pushing himself through. The office busywork made him feel like an insignificant cog in a very large machine. Then, when he could reasonably escape for the day, he would hit the gym to work out as hard as possible, and finally go home to watch TV until bedtime, hoping he would be able to sleep and not dream.

**

While they waited for the game to start, Booth collected drinks and utensils in the kitchen, while Cam arranged the food on the coffee table. She cracked open a tub of dip, a box of crackers, and pulled the seal off some Tupperware containing raw vegetables.

She'd been in Seeley's apartment before, of course. But was it messier than usual? In the kitchen she'd noticed empty takeout cartons, and there in the hall leading to the bedroom, a gym bag and sweatshirt had been dumped on the floor. It wasn't like him not to straighten up before having someone over.

The bookcase along the wall, at least, looked the same. There were two pictures of Parker grinning adorably from their frames, and next to them, a copy of Brennan's novel.

"Has it started yet?" Booth yelled, clattering silverware. Cam heard him pop the caps off beer bottles.

"No, still commercials," she called back.

A minute later he came in, some plates and silverware balanced on one hand, and two chilled beer bottles in the other. He handed her one, then said with exaggerated casualness, "So…didn't Angela say she was doing something with Bones this weekend?"

Cam was taking a swig of beer. "Um, yes," she responded. "I think they were going to watch a movie. Or, knowing Brennan, a documentary."

Booth nodded, then grabbed the remote and plopped down on the couch. "Let's see what my team can do, eh?"

Overall, Cam thought, it was a pretty good afternoon. She tried not to focus on anything but having a good time with an old friend. The hockey game seemed like a smart choice--an opportunity to just let Booth be a guy. To chug some beer and talk through a mouthful of crackers. To explain rules and strategies to her, then yell at the screen when the players didn't follow his recommendation.

It all went pretty well, except for one incident on the ice. They were watching in silence this time, their eyes following the darting players, and hearing the skates scrape the ice, the clack of sticks, the thud and grunt of men body-checking each other. Then Booth's team found itself guarding a sudden offensive dash. One of the defenders, Petersen, poised himself watchfully at one side of the rink, while his teammate Henley covered the other. But an offensive player screeched up, fiercely checking Henley against the wall of the rink, while another zipped past to take a shot at the goal.

"Oh god," Booth yelled, "what the hell? What was Petersen doing?" Their goalie made a desperate, split-second save, and the slap shot barely missed the net.

Cam groaned in relief. "Damn, that was a close one."

The game went to a commercial, but Booth had jumped to his feet, gesticulating at the TV. "What was he, asleep on the ice? Those guys went right past him!"

"It looked like he was getting ready, trying to predict the action," Cam said.

"There was no time for that," Booth cried, "he had to _take _action!"

Cam eyed him, suddenly aware that he wasn't just talking about hockey anymore, even if he didn't realize it. "He's supposed to have faster reflexes than that!" Booth ranted. "If the other team had scored, they could've lost the game right there!"

"Hey, they didn't. There's still some good playing time left--"

Booth barely heard her. "He's the one who's supposed to protect his teammates, but he lets offense check Henley into the wall? He's like the smallest guy on the team!"

"Seeley," Cam said, "relax. We know it's a tough game. But Henley's going to be fine. That guy came out of nowhere. Give yourself a break." Oops, she thought. Did I say 'yourself' instead of Petersen? She grabbed her beer, pretending that hockey was the only thing on her mind. Booth gave her a suspicious glance, but might have been oblivious to the parallels.

Okay, Cam thought, maybe hockey wasn't the best choice. The game is too intense, and Booth gets riled up about it as it is. But… was it better to help him unwind, or did he need provocation to unleash whatever feelings he was bottling up?

She knew he was feeling guilty, and she suspected some of the related issues--his attraction to Brennan, for one thing. But she wasn't sure she should address it. What could she even say? Sweets was back from his conference now--maybe he would have better luck. Or maybe this was something that he--and Brennan--just had to work out on their own.

It was nearly time for her to leave before she risked bringing the conversation around to these topics. She was helping him clean up the snacks, carrying the nearly empty container of dip, and empty beer bottles, back to the kitchen. She dropped the bottles into the recycling bin with a crash. "Hey…" she started. "I don't know if Brennan told you, back when we got the results of your tox screen…"

He was running water over some plates in the sink. Cam stood next to him at the counter. "She thought you fought it off really well. She said she was surprised how lucid you were, despite the dosage they probably gave you." He didn't respond, so she kept talking. "You know that variant, Demerol-C, isn't widely used in the medical field, and not much in the recreational drug trade either. It tends to make people very docile, and can have some nasty side effects. I mean, a lot of people, in your place, would've been close to catatonic."

Booth turned off the water and grabbed a dish towel. "I know you mean well, Camille, but is that the best you can do? _Congratulations, Booth, on not being catatonic_?" He whipped the towel down. "Yeah, that really helps."

Cam thought she would try once more, as she grabbed her coat from its hook by the door. "Seeley," she said somberly, and told him what she had told Brennan, that in her view, he had made the right call. "And listen, if you hadn't been such a good detective, if your investigation had taken longer, the guys would've already been gone, and you never would've confirmed they were guilty."

She knew this was poor comfort, but she had to try. He's looking at me, she thought, and he's nodding, but I just don't think the words are getting through. "Nobody blames you, okay?" He still didn't answer, so she said, "Come here, you." She kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his shoulders in a quick hug. "You call me, if you need anything. I'm serious."

"Ok, Camille. Thanks. And sorry if I yelled at you back there."

Booth closed the door, feeling winded. Although he appreciated the diversion of the game, and her attempts to reassure him, why did he still feel like crap? And why, he thought, didn't Bones tell me herself? It looked like more proof that she had been avoiding him. This news about fighting off the drug did make him feel better--sort of. But it also underlined his shame at being helpless, telling him that he could have been even _more _helpless.

Nobody blames you, Cam had said, for what happened. But she wasn't the one he needed to hear it from.

**

After spending part of Saturday with Angela, Brennan decided to go to the Sunday morning karate class. She knew it was too soon for a full workout; her cracked ribs were still knitting, and the cartilaginous connections re-establishing themselves. But she was antsy for more exercise, and wanted to resume this part of her routine.

In the locker room, she donned her karate outfit, tied the belt, and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Taking her towel and water, she joined the other barefoot, white-clad people in the martial arts studio. She recognized two she was friendly with from the weeknight classes, a fifty-ish woman named Barbara, and a mostly-bald retiree, Jim. They came over to say hello. "Where have you been?" Barb wanted to know. "We've missed seeing you."

Brennan had not anticipated having to explain, but realized that was an oversight. "I had to take some time off," she said. "I injured two ribs."

They made sounds of distress, asking how it had happened. "I…got in a fight with someone."

"Because of your work, right?" Jim asked. They knew the general outlines of her life, just as she knew a little about theirs. He turned to Barb. "I told you--she really does all that stuff in her books." Then he grinned at her. "Chasing down bad guys, right?"

Brennan forced a smile. "Right."

She took that minute before class started to inform the instructor she had been injured, so he would understand if she failed to participate in all the exercises, or the partner-sparring they sometimes did near the end of the session.

Everyone began the stretches and warm-up sequence, watching themselves in the mirror that took up the entire front wall. Brennan felt a little stiff and sore. But she could finally take a deep breath, inhaling down through her diaphragm, without that pain compressing her ribcage. And she was glad to be here: her muscles moving through the forms like a choreographed dance, the oxygenated blood surging through her veins. Her body poised and bare feet balanced, the trace of sweat on her soles enhancing the grip on the hardwood.

As the real workout began, however, she had to limit herself to upper body moves, rather than the kicks that engaged all the core muscles. It was frustrating, to watch the others moving effortlessly. She wanted to surrender to that focused concentration of effort, but was afraid to over-stretch.

Still, by the end of class, she was feeling more limber, and decided to stay later. As people wandered out of the room, chatting and draping towels around their necks, Brennan went over to the free-standing weighted bag in the corner. I'll try some kickboxing moves, she thought, along with the usual martial arts forms. The room was nearly deserted now; it was around noon, and on a weekend, that was when most people departed, to spend time with their families.

Music still thumped rhythmically from a group fitness class next door. Brennan tried some jabs and cross punches, hitting the bag cautiously at first. But she felt warm and supple, and eager for activity. She added some knee and elbow strikes, then some light kicks: the stomp kick, the roundhouse. These moves recruited stabilizing muscles that tugged on her ribcage, but it seemed like a healthy ache rather than a hazardous one. Perhaps she would be sorry later, but it was satisfying now.

The class had kept her mind focused, watching herself, watching others. Now she was alone, however… images were infiltrating her brain. The last time she had used these moves: her desperate fight with Rawling.

Maybe one day, she would stop seeing the retribution on his face, right before he kicked her. Seeing, through the hair that had fallen into her eyes, the way he'd loomed over her once they'd knocked her to the floor.

Brennan smacked the bag harder, making her knuckles sting. Rawling had truly been the one to fear. Anders was smart and therefore dangerous, but Rawling…he'd been fast as well as strong. And he liked inflicting pain.

Jab, cross, jab, she thought as she socked the bag. Dodge, kick, dodge again. Her struggle with the criminals seemed to fill the room with its presence.

Hook, she grunted, swinging her arm. Uppercut, hook. Harder.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea. But if she couldn't force the memories away… perhaps she should let them in. The studio was deserted now…

Yes, she would try an experiment. She would let that anger drive her. She would beat this bag--hadn't Booth done the same, right after it happened?--she would thrash it as if it wore the criminals' faces.

Maybe this would be cathartic. She could already feel the increased adrenaline being secreted in her body, triggered by the flashbacks and the exercise.

So--she would give in, this once. She--

Was back in the hotel room, slammed up against the desk. Anders' slightly sweaty hands had grasped the bare flesh of her hips. When he'd finally backed off, Rawling had let go of her arms. She'd slithered off the table, hunched over, and put her back against the wall. Her legs quivered, flooded with shame and fear.

Brennan hit the bag more fiercely. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks flushed, and sweat beaded her forehead.

Anders, adjusting his fly, had laughed under his breath. He'd gone to the bathroom--hopefully fool enough to leave the condom in the trash, as evidence--but he had flushed it. Her hands were still tied, and awkwardly, she'd pulled her pants back over her hips, while Rawling stood guard across the table.

Then Anders swaggered back. "Well, what do you say?" he'd asked Rawling. "Your turn?"

"You're the boss," Rawling had said, but his eyes took on a hooded, predatory look.

No, Brennan thought. No, no.

She had lost the awareness of form and control in her blows, just like she had with Rawling. Nothing mattered but the speed and force to protect herself. She grunted with effort, her ribs aching and hot, her fists and feet making the heavy bag wobble on its base. She wanted to batter it, knock it down and stomp it into the floor.

Then, in the middle of a kick, pain lanced through her ribs. It threw her off balance, and she half hopped, half fell to one side. Sucking air through her teeth, she backed to the wall, wrapping one arm around herself. Tears pressed instantly behind her eyes. She was afraid she'd done serious damage, like tearing away the new connective cartilage.

Just like before. She'd been fighting in earnest, when pain had knocked her to the ground.

Oh god, won't I ever be free of them?

In that hotel suite, she had felt tossed around by currents of male whim. First, the guns pointed at them, and Booth's hissed warning not to fight; it was riskier than she'd thought. Then Anders wanted things rough, but if she fought for real--she and Booth were tied up, while Rawling had that knife. Then suddenly, she could fight him without holding back, but would Anders keep it fair? And what would he think of next?

Brennan was starting to cry too hard for rational thought, but -- Experiment failed, she concluded. Emotions out of control. Abort.

The calm from following a workout, or examining bones, or being with Angela--all gone.

I can't do this anymore, she thought with anguish. I can't stand to be alone in my own head.

She looked around the room with tears blurring her vision. Its bright overhead lights, its bare expanse of floor. Some mats stacked in the corner, and a clock on one wall. The music from next door had stopped, and she could actually hear the clock ticking.

Brennan wished someone were here: Angela, Booth, Cam. Her karate instructor, anyone.

What can I do with myself? And what can I do for Booth?

She took a shuddering breath. Part of her wanted to keep crying. To huddle on the floor, to give up and go home. But a larger part could not accept that. Would not let this morning end in defeat.

She realized she was still hunched over, but out of fear rather than actual pain. Slowly, she straightened up. Carefully, she rotated her shoulders left, then right. She raised her arms over her head. Her ribs hurt more than they had, but it was not a piercing kind of pain.

Brennan wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve. She took a drink of water. Her muscles were still warm. Whether it was bravery, or foolishness, or a sheer stubborn streak, she thought she could salvage this workout. She would not go home in tears.

Her feet shifted to a balanced stance. Her hands formed fists. Cautiously, she jabbed the bag. Think only about your body, she told herself. Keep the form precise. A firm punch, a gentle kick. Her muscles remembered the way. Her eyes were still red from crying, and her throat hurt, but she was mindful of her breathing: to exhale with each blow.

---------------------

**A/N:** Anyone miss Sweets? He'll be back to cause more trouble in the next sections.

Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** This is a somewhat shorter chapter than I usually post, but:

1) the scene with Sweets is taking longer than anticipated, and

2) I wanted to give this as a sort of consolation prize, so it might help people feel less bereft on our no-new-episode-Thursday.

Happy reading.

**Part 7 **

"Brennan's not late this morning, is she?" Angela asked, wandering over to Hodgins' lab station. "I could have sworn I saw her come in."

Jack was blowing on his coffee, waiting for his computer to boot up--and, Angela thought, looking especially fine in his blue lab coat. "I think I saw her," he began, at the same time Zach answered, "She was here a few moments ago." He was standing at the next table, doing something with a container of beetles.

"She's not in her office?" Jack asked.

Angela shook her head. "I just went by there."

"She has been spending a great deal of time there by herself," Zach observed. "Or else examining bones, also by herself."

"Dude, don't take it personally," Hodgins said. "Although," he swiveled in his chair, "you _are _overdue for a haircut. It would make you less painful to look at."

If Zach came up with a witty retort, Angela did not hear it. She went to double check her friend's office. She was sure Brennan would show up, but it was very odd for her to arrive, only to disappear--especially on a Monday morning. After walking down several corridors to peer into adjacent lab rooms, Angela remembered her trusty adage, 'When in doubt, head for the ladies' room.'

She was in luck. Peeking under the stalls, she identified Brennan's feet.

"Morning, Bren," she sing-songed. "Everything okay? I've got a new simulation to show you for our Roman warrior."

No response. Then she heard a telltale sniff. Was Brennan crying? Oh, no. Angela went to stand outside the stall door and tapped on it gently. "Sweetie? What's going on?" Still nothing. This time she made her voice firm. "Brennan. It's your best friend out here. Worried. I know there's something wrong, so please unlock this door and tell me, or else I'm going to have to crawl underneath like in junior high, and that would not be pretty because I'd probably get stuck."

That earned a stifled laugh, and the door opened. Brennan was holding a crumpled tissue in one hand, and there were traces of tears on her face.

"It's nothing, really," she started, and placed her purse on the counter next to the sinks. Angela crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, so Brennan resigned herself to full disclosure. "I started menstruating," she said. "I was watching out for it… But it made me think. I guess I just felt overwhelmed. For one thing," she exhaled loudly, "I'm glad Anders used a condom, so I don't have to worry about pregnancy or STDs."

Angela's stern demeanor had melted instantly, her lips forming a dismayed "Oh."

Brennan continued. "The cycling of hormones--it makes you more aware of your body--breasts, reproductive tract… Which is something that can still be disconcerting."

"I'm sorry." Angela didn't know what else to say.

"Well," Brennan sniffed wryly, "at least this might explain why I've been in a crying mood lately."

"Everyone gets their share of those." Angela tried to smile. "You know I sometimes take more than my allotment. But--are you set?" she asked. "You don't need a tampon?"

Brennan shook her head, the action reflected in the mirror over the sinks. "Actually, I'm afraid to try one."

"For the obvious reason?" Angela prompted softly. "It might…hurt?"

A nod. "I will get back to it…just not yet." She rubbed her nose with the tissue she still held.

"They do say," Angela suggested, "if you fall off a horse you're supposed to get right back on again. But I doubt that was ever said by someone who'd had their private parts bruised by the saddle."

Brennan's mouth quirked with a nascent smile. "I'm, fine, Ange. We can get back to work."

"Okay…but, down the road, if you're ever in the mood for an item that's more fun than a chafing stick of cotton, you could always borrow something from my cute little collection of sex toys. Unless--wait." Angela wrinkled her nose. "Is that gross to offer?"

"No, it's sweet. I'll keep it in mind." Brennan took a final dab at her eyes and crushed the tissue in her palm.

Just then one of the interns came in, giving them a curious look before ducking into a stall. "Come on, gorgeous." Angela slung one arm over her friend's shoulders. "Let's get back to our fascinating dead people."

**

Later that day, Brennan made an unannounced visit to Booth's office. As she came to the open door, she saw him standing by the window holding his cell phone, and his tone made it clear he was talking to Parker.

"Yeah, pal, me too. …I bet they have a million different types of sharks. …No? Okay, well how about five different types? …You do? Okay, have a great time at soccer. Play hard. …Love you, buddy."

He turned to see Brennan. "Bones," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought you this." She held a slim folder in one hand. "How's Parker?"

"Yeah, he's fine." Booth stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We're going to the aquarium this weekend. That's why I can't make it to that thing at Hodgins' place."

Brennan felt a twinge of disappointment. He should be there, she thought, but couldn't decide whether he was lucky to avoid it, having to face their friends in an ill-defined, non-work setting, or whether he was unlucky, to miss out on those same friends looking after him.

Either way, she couldn't think of a response; so, as he sat down at his desk, she took the chair across from him. Opening the folder, she revealed three printouts of black and white graphics. "These are Angela's reconstructions of the military insignia," Brennan explained, "from the hallway security man's jacket. There wasn't enough detail on the video to pin it down to one symbol, so she came up with several of the most likely possibilities."

Booth looked at the pictures: a diving hawk, a rearing horse, and a dragon. Each was surrounded by curlicues or stylized tree branches, to form a design within a circle motif.

"Great," he said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. "But…you didn't have to bring these over. You could have just sent them. Or looked on some military databases yourself." Why had she come here, exactly? Surely not just to see him…

"Booth," Brennan shook her head, "you have a military background, and a plethora of detective skills. Your knowledge of military paraphernalia far surpasses what I or Angela could discover on our own."

Booth felt an unexpected smile tug his mouth. She had said the perfect thing. "Well," he tapped his keyboard to wake the computer, "we'll just see what we can find, about these dragon/eagle/horse commando units."

Brennan watched him click through a list of databases. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and his white shirt sleeves partly rolled up. She looked at his wrists: strong and elegant. No evidence they had been marked by handcuffs.

"I've missed seeing you," she blurted. "Around the lab."

He glanced sharply at her for a second, then replied, "Yeah, I've missed seeing you too…around the lab."

She wondered briefly if he was teasing her, but detected too much genuine feeling in his voice.

Still looking at the screen, he asked, "Did you have a good time with Angela over the weekend?"

"We watched a movie that was…mostly enjoyable." Never mind about the karate, she thought. She'd taken some pain medication for her ribs this morning, to be on the safe side. "How was your weekend?"

"Cam and I watched a hockey game… it was mostly enjoyable." This time he was teasing her. Although his voice had a self-deprecating quality she didn't like, his eyes gave a familiar brown twinkle.

Then, "This will take a little time," he said, nodding at the screen. "I can hold on to these pictures?"

"Of course."

"I've still got all these traffic violations and petty crime things to deal with--" he jabbed resentfully at a stack of papers on the desk. "And, of course, I'm still following the search for our criminals." He avoided her eyes. "I can barely do more than follow, because it's not easy to pursue leads with other agents breathing down your neck."

Brennan didn't know what to say. The abrupt change in his attitude disturbed her. As soon as he'd mentioned the work, official or otherwise, he'd become tense, his voice rising. He wasn't supposed to be tracking their case, but maybe the detective work--doing his cop thing--was reassuring, just like her work examining bones. It was partly why she hadn't made an effort to talk to him before now. She didn't like people telling her not to work, so she had let him be. And she certainly didn't have the heart to chastise him now.

**

"Dr. Brennan?" A familiar voice hailed her as she walked down the corridor on her way out of the FBI building. "I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. We haven't seen you here in ages." Caroline Julian's broad form emerged from the lounge at the end of the hall.

"No," Brennan said. "I've been working mostly in the lab."

"Come in here and have a cup of coffee with me." Caroline beckoned her toward the counter in one corner of the room.

"I hope you've dropped by to see that fine partner of yours," she went on, once Brennan had joined her. She lifted the coffee pot from its holder and filled a mug. "That man has been in a sorry state for weeks. But, cherie…" Caroline set the cup down to look at Brennan, and her face drooped a little under its dramatic red coif. "I heard about what happened. I just wanted to say I'm sorry, for whatever it's worth. And that I would be more than happy to prosecute those--_people_--as soon as we bring them in. See, I promised myself I would not curse while on duty," she explained. "Not very professional."

She turned back to the counter and shuffled through the little packets of sugar resting in a dish. Ripping one open, she poured it into her mug. "Honestly, I don't know why I bother with this…sort-of-coffee substance," she muttered.

"Now, if you or Agent Booth, or any other agents working this case, find yourself in need of documents, search warrants, or strong legal leverage to make people more disposed to talk, you just say the word."

Brennan nodded her thanks.

"You sure you won't sit and have a cup of coffee with me?" Caroline raised an imploring eyebrow, but Brennan shook her head.

"I should get back."

"Well then, will you at least let this crusty old lawyer give you a hug before you go?"

To that, Brennan agreed. "You don't appear particularly old," she said, as Caroline's generous arms enfolded her. "Or crusty."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** And now back to our regularly scheduled program, "B&B Watching," with Dr Sweets. Stay tuned after the episode and cast your vote: will Sweets ultimately be a force for good or ill in the lives of our two heroes?

**Part 8 **

Sweets had returned from his conference full of renewed energy and confidence. He looked forward to another meeting with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth, with the anticipation of a professional who knows he is facing a complex challenge, but also knows he is equal to it.

At the start of the session, he observed the pair as they settled into their usual seats across from him. Brennan looked more composed than when he had seen her last, but Booth looked worse. He wore another of his gaudy ties, this one striped with blue and silver, but his shirt was wrinkled, and his eyes were shadowed like he hadn't slept.

Sweets began with a question about the 'homework' he had asked them to consider: was their gentleness with each other a temporary phenomenon, and if it was removed, what would they be afraid the other person might say?

"Well," Booth mumbled, "we sort of covered that one already. We yelled at each other in the car coming back from the inn."

"We didn't _yell_," Brennan revised. "Raised voices, maybe."

"Whoa, hold on." Sweets needed to catch up. "You went back to the inn?"

"Yeah. FBI follow-up procedure." Booth was looking anywhere but at the other two.

"But…" Sweets objected, "you didn't have to physically _go _there, did you? I really wish you'd consulted me. Because I would've said that was an extremely unwise idea."

"Yeah, we know." Booth was sorry he'd brought it up. "Can we move on?"

Hell no, Sweets thought. Not only did you go back to the scene of the crime, you just said you yelled at each other on the way back.

"I," Brennan announced, "would like to talk about the victim, Miranda Charles."

Sweets narrowed his eyes. Was she giving Booth an escape route from a topic that made him uncomfortable, much the way he had defended her during their last session? He couldn't be certain. But, because volunteering something for discussion was so unlike her, he would have to be an idiot to turn it away.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I've been very…preoccupied," she said. "Even though Zach and I have gone over the victim's remains thoroughly, I find myself wanting to re-examine them. But if I do, I feel very unfocused. I think," she glanced in Booth's direction, "I'm acting as though a part of her is still alive, even though I don't believe that to be the case."

Sweets was nodding. "These are natural reactions…"

In contrast to Booth's rumpled appearance, Sweets noticed that Dr. Brennan was looking especially--there was no other word for it--hot. She wore a knee-length brown skirt and tall boots, and the neckline of her deep red shirt dipped a fraction lower than usual.

As she spoke, she shifted position on the couch, crossing her legs and smoothing the skirt over her knees. Sweets saw Booth's eye track the movement. Then he snapped his gaze away, tugging at his tie to loosen it.

Of course! Sweets thought with a flash of insight. That would explain some of Booth's anxiety, his closed attitude. His sublimated attraction for his partner was no longer so sublimated. The recent situation had forced it out of hiding, and its unveiled presence was causing him additional stress. It was hard enough for Booth to see Brennan happily dating, or sleeping with, other men. But now, to know she had been forced, in the very next room of that hotel, no less…And to still feel some measure of jealousy…It would have dredged up some very nasty and conflicted feelings. His guilt had to be pretty powerful.

But, Sweets knew, it would not be a good idea to push these feelings into the open during partners' therapy. He would have to request that Agent Booth come back on his own.

Daunted by the task but pleased at his perceptions, Sweets focused back in on what Brennan was saying about the young victim.

"I'm also curious about her life, her interests. What did she like to play on the piano, or where did she go running? And I can't help wondering… what she went through before her death." This part was more difficult, but Brennan forced the words out. "We can't determine if she was raped before she was murdered."

"No, we can't," Sweets said gently. "It might be a relief to know one way or the other, rather than living with the uncertainty. And, although it doesn't seem rational to you, you do have a kind of bond with the victim, since she too knew the criminals, and was harmed by them. It's natural to sympathize, or even to feel guilty, for surviving when someone else did not."

Brennan was quiet for a moment. "I thought…would it be inappropriate to contact her family? Just to find out more about her?"

Sweets started to shake his head doubtfully, but Booth spoke up. "That might be a good idea, Bones. The FBI told them we confirmed the suspects' identities, but to hear from one of us personally, that we are going to catch those guys who murdered their daughter…it might help."

"But, the reason for your contacting them…" Sweets began uncertainly.

"Of course I wouldn't mention sexual assault," Brennan said. "It would be cruel to suggest that possibility to the parents, especially when we don't have any definitive answers."

Sweets nodded, feeling convinced. "All right," he said. "I don't think it would be inappropriate to contact them. If handled in a sensitive manner--for instance, making it clear you're calling out of personal concern, rather than professional reasons…" As a precaution against her sometimes too-clinical language, Sweets suggested several phrases Brennan could use if she decided to talk to the family, and mentioned a few others she should avoid using.

While Sweets was imparting his advice, Brennan considered whether to divulge additional sentiments. After her weekend crisis in the karate studio, she had managed to go home feeling more in control. Still, the experience had unsettled her. She decided it couldn't hurt to air some of the still-churning emotions. Besides, if she did, perhaps Booth would open up as well.

Brennan sighed. "If only we had more solid evidence at this stage. We do know Rawling was guarding us with a thirty-eight caliber… It's too bad he didn't fire his weapon. Then we could have recovered a bullet to match to the wound track in the victim's cranium."

"Whoa," Booth said. "Bones, no, you do _not _wish someone had fired their gun."

"No, I mean--just into the wall or a piece of furniture. I considered trying to get them to fire, during a struggle…but I was too frightened."

Booth stared at her, with shock and a little admiration. "You considered that? But--it's so risky!"

"Way risky," Sweets muttered. He wasn't sure why she was being so forthcoming, but he was glad to go along with it and see where it would lead.

Brennan glanced between them, trying to explain. "I didn't truly think they would kill me," she said softly, "but I thought they _would _hurt us, and it was possible they would kill you. Thinking about the potential evidence they were leaving behind…it helped me be less scared."

Booth was still shaking his head in disbelief. God, Bones, he thought, you are fearless. That genius mind of hers had been analyzing evidence even as it was forming, even under extreme stress. While all he had done…

"Right now…" Brennan's voice was still small. "Sometimes I can't get the criminals out of my head. What if…" She glanced toward Booth, reluctant to go on. "It's the thought that they could hurt more people. More women."

Sweets leaned forward, shaking his head in reassurance. "If they're smart, they won't dare. Not now that their descriptions have been circulated. And I don't think it's likely anyway. You see," he perched on the edge of his chair, "Anders is an opportunistic criminal. The young victim, and then you, happened to cross his path, so he took advantage of that. But he's not the type to go hunting for others."

Sweets paused. "I'm sorry," he said. "If that was too much information…?"

Booth was shaking his head grimly. He knew this already, Sweets guessed, given his skill with criminal motivation…but he didn't like hearing it in those terms. And in front of Brennan.

"It was probably Rawling who pulled the trigger," Booth added reluctantly. "On his boss's orders, or possibly his own volition. But we know Anders was the brains behind the operation. He's the one who orchestrated the cover-up." He gave a brief, bitter smile. "Just not well enough."

Brennan acknowledged his comment with a nod, still sifting through her thoughts. "Rationally," she began, "I want to understand criminal mindsets. It helps me make sense of the cases, to partly explain why these things happen. But in this case, I don't…" She shook her head, tussling with some strong emotion that was trying to break out of her. "I don't want to think about them," she exclaimed, "I don't want to talk about them, I don't want to give them any more space in my life than they already have." Her voice was vehement, but trembled slightly.

Sweets was about to step in and articulate the psychology underlying what she was feeling, but Booth did it for him, albeit in a different manner.

"Those guys," he growled, "are bastards. We want to stay mad at them. We don't want them to be anything else." He had been looking straight ahead, but now he turned to Brennan, his voice gentle. "It's easier, in a way. And it's exactly how we're supposed to feel."

Sweets watched them gaze at each other. Mirrored worry creased their foreheads, and he thought he saw the gleam of tears--that they were both too stubborn to shed. Regret and sorrow hung between them like a palpable cloud, and Sweets felt his own throat tighten.

Well, he thought. The hidden sexual attraction is clearly not the only thing going on here.

"Um," he squeaked, and cleared his throat. "Why don't we take a short break, before the remainder of the session. Say ten minutes?"

He would spend the time pacing up and down the hallway, thinking.

**

When Sweets re-entered his office, Booth was sitting dejectedly in his chair. Dr. Brennan entered a moment later. Once they'd resumed their places, he began, "Agent Booth, since we have heard mainly from Dr. Brennan, I would invite you to contribute to the discussion at this time."

Booth gave him a weary look. But Brennan raised one eyebrow in an encouraging way, so he sighed. "It's just…the search isn't going well. Tracking down the suspects. I thought…I don't know what else…" He groped for words, frustrated. "I just wish I could investigate properly, not sneak around behind closed doors."

"So…" Sweets wanted to clarify. "You are pursuing leads in this case, against explicit FBI protocols?"

"Yeah," Booth said defiantly. "You gonna rat me out, Sweets? Get me put on probation?"

"No, not necessarily. Everything said here is confidential, unless I feel someone is a danger to themselves or others. But what I want to know," he leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Booth, "is whether you're willing to jeopardize this whole investigation, catching Rawling and Anders, just to assuage your righteous indignation about what happened."

Booth went white, then red.

"Sweets," Brennan reproved, "that was unnecessarily mean."

But Sweets kept staring at Booth, not letting him off the hook. For a second he was sure he would get punched out, but the anger on Booth's face was rapidly turning to fear.

"No, that's not how it is," he said weakly. He glanced at Brennan as if begging her to understand. She waited patiently.

Sweets knew he had hit on something important, for the way Booth was searching for a defense. "It doesn't matter who comes up with the lead," Booth said, "as long as it's Fleming or someone who pursues it. The inspiration doesn't matter in a case. The initial tip-off can be anonymous or whatever--as long as it's not me who carries it out. Fleming can get the credit, fine. All I want is to come along for the ride when we finally bring those bastards in."

Brennan looked thoughtful. "That makes sense," she said. "It's during the collection and interpretation of _forensic _evidence that the policies must be strictly adhered to. Even though facts are objective, a jury can be persuaded that the evidence is skewed or misinterpreted."

Booth looked relieved, but his expression hardened as she went on.

"We know we'll have to have an independent team come in, to re-do our lab results, before the case goes to trial. Even though ninety percent of my findings about the victim occurred before I became involved, they might be called into question too. Even Hodgins' and Cam's findings might need outside authentication, because they're my colleagues and friends, and could therefore be seen as biased."

Booth took a deep breath. He had not anticipated this, although he was aware of the way legal proceedings worked. This whole thing could take such a long time, he thought. Months. Even years. He hunched forward and buried his face in his hands. I don't know if I can put up with that.

"Sweets," he said, his voice muffled. "Don't take the work away from me. Please. I have to keep doing this."

Brennan and Sweets exchanged a worried glance. It was Booth's "please" that troubled them, rather than the more expected reaction, anger.

Brennan leaned forward too, trying to see Booth's face. She wanted very badly to touch him, to offer comfort.

Instead, she spoke softly, as if Sweets were not there. "Booth…I don't know if working on this case is good for you. I thought at first it would be, because it provides purpose and focus… But having to deal with this, along with your assigned cases… maybe it's too much."

He shook his head, still shielded by his hands, and Brennan couldn't tell if he was agreeing or disagreeing.

"It's like…" she hesitated. "Like you're punishing yourself, having to deal with this on a daily basis. Having to think about the criminals--their motives, their plans--every day."

Booth raised his head, red-eyed. "I already think about them on a daily basis." His voice was low and gravelly. "Don't you?"

She looked away. "Yes."

Sweets realized he had been breathing very quietly, as if afraid to spook them. He was impressed by Dr. Brennan's perceptiveness in this matter. Now he shifted in his chair, reminding them of his presence. He decided to point out that he shared her concerns: "I don't know if continuing in this manner is healthy for you," he told Booth. "But, no, I will not try to get you in trouble by revealing your personal investigation."

Booth gave him a grudging thanks. The session was nearly over, and because Sweets figured they had delved into enough serious topics for one day, he need not give them 'assignments.'

As the pair got up to leave, Brennan said to Booth, "I almost forgot. Our latest John Doe from Limbo--have you located possible family members?"

It took Booth a moment to switch gears, but he seemed grateful to return to business. "I'm still narrowing down the missing persons list. You said it looks like murder?"

"Looks like," she emphasized. "The marks on the ribs and parietal bone--they could have alternative explanations, but in the absence of more forensic evidence, I would still suspect foul play."

Booth nodded. "Well, I'll keep searching. We could have some bereaved families to visit by the end of the week. After all, we haven't been on a field trip in a while, have we?" He tried to grin, but looked pained rather than pleased at the thought of spending more time with Brennan.

Sweets watched them walk out, Booth holding the door for his partner. He instinctively raised his arm to place a guiding hand on her lower back, but dropped it abruptly, without touching her. His fingers clenched into a fist. Then, realizing Sweets would have seen the aborted gesture, Booth turned to give him a confident 'see you later' nod.

Sweets was not fooled for a second.

He sat lost in thought after the door had closed. Brennan was doing well, he concluded. But Booth… he feared the accumulated pressures were getting to be too much for him. Perhaps I should take action, he mused. A tough-love approach? Yes… to save Booth from himself.

Sweets got up, then resettled himself before the computer. He had a correspondence to draft to Cullen, Booth's boss at the FBI.

**

That night, Booth and Fleming were sitting in a car in a shady part of town, watching an alley. They were waiting for a drug deal to take place. The suspect was a relatively minor criminal, but if left unchecked, he had the potential to turn into a more serious drug lord.

Gathering information about this guy was one of the official tasks Booth had been working on, but he realized he was lucky to be included in the stakeout. He was still under observation, and was sure Fleming had been ordered to report any unusual action on his part.

Even so, it felt good to be out in the field, waiting in anticipation. The late-evening quiet was broken by the occasional barking dog or blaring car alarm. Wind rustled tree branches above the roof of the car.

Fleming sat in the driver's seat, warming his hands around a cup of coffee. Faint light from a distant streetlamp pricked the edges of his thinning hair. He wasn't very talkative, but that was fine with Booth. People at work were still being careful around him, a fact that made him slightly resentful.

And…Brennan was being careful around him too. Why, he thought, is she being so nice to me? It actually made him feel worse. He couldn't take this doubt; he would have to confront her eventually. In Sweets' office, he had wanted to beg her: Please, Bones, just yell at me. Get it over with. Finish what you started in the car that day.

If, he thought, if it had been just me in that suite, it wouldn't be so bad. Yes, he'd have felt ashamed, and foolish, and angry. But he'd deal with it. The way he was trying to deal with it now: pressing on with the work, venting through physical activity, and just realizing that these things can happen. In this job, with the scumbags you come across, sometimes they get the drop on you, and sometimes they get away.

But Brennan had been there too. Normally, if anyone threatened her, if anyone hurt her, Booth would kill them. It was that simple. Like the time that gang leader had set a target on her. His course of action was clear: find where he hangs out, and lie in wait. Catch him in an isolated alley. Grab him and press the gun barrel into the flesh of his face. The guy gets the message, or he gets shot. Simple.

But this… Booth stretched his legs out as far as possible in the cramped car. That suite hadn't been an alley, and he hadn't been the one stalking. He hadn't been free to act, or plan, or stay in control. And now he had to be patient and do things by the book. Now he had to follow the fucking rules of jurisprudence.

Fleming tensed in the seat next to him, and Booth narrowed his eyes. Yep, that was their guy. Meeting his buyer in the shadows. Wait for the actual exchange…wait for it…Now. Booth bolted out of the car and pounded toward the alley. He was a step behind Fleming, who yelled, "FBI! Freeze!" The buyer threw up his hands, but the dealer ran.

Booth had him in his sights. They must not be armed--good. It was a basic chase and take down. Booth sprinted past trash cans, sucking air in quick, efficient gasps. His leg muscles pumped with exhilaration. The suspect wasn't fast enough. He got around the back of the building, by a tiny patch of grass with one rusty lawn chair, and then Booth was on top of him. He tackled him to the ground. The guy managed to flip over, trying to struggle out from under his hold. Booth pulled his elbow back, fist ready. He wanted to smash that ugly mouth, those beady eyes.

But the man had stopped thrashing. Panting, he held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. No, Booth thought, that was too easy! Fight, you son of a bitch! He wanted a longer chase: leaping fences, ducking barriers. Catching the guy with his last burst of speed. Tackling, wrestling. A good old-fashioned fist fight--justifiable when they resist arrest.

But this criminal was giving in, damn him. Still breathing hard, Booth grabbed the guy's jacket to force him onto his stomach. Digging out his handcuffs, he yanked the man's arms behind him.

Fleming called to him from the corner of the building. "Yeah, I'm good," Booth answered. "Got him." He dragged the suspect to his feet and marched him back to the car. His muscles still yelled for more action, but he told them to shut up. He and Fleming had done it--they'd caught their crooks for the day. And right now, Booth really didn't need allegations of police brutality added to his record.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **I had no idea, when I started this, that I would have to worry so much about Booth's feelings. At times I want to shake him and say, 'Quit being a baby, you're taking valuable screen time away from Brennan!' But I think he's realizing this, and sooner or later, they'll both get more time to interact and figure things out.

**Part 9**

The next day, Booth worked on follow-up reports with Fleming, and prowled around an interview room, hassling the captured drug dealer as much as the defense lawyer would permit. When he returned to his desk, he found a message from his boss: meet me in my office. Oh, shit, he thought. What did I do now? There was no way Cullen had gotten wind of _all _the events in the alley the previous night…because Booth had only _thought _about hurting the guy. He had followed the rules.

Then he realized--Sweets. It had to be Sweets. That little dillweed lied to me! He _did _tell Cullen about my illicit investigation.

On the way to the requested meeting, Booth distracted himself with visions of what he would do to that kid--what would constitute appropriate revenge.

But his suspicions were wrong, about the kind of trouble Sweets was causing. Once Booth had taken a seat across from Cullen's desk, the boss announced, "I'm taking you off that John Doe case you started with your squint. Case number--" he shuffled some papers on his desk, then gave up. "Well, whatever the number is. I'll turn it over to Romero, so if you'll cooperate and share your initial findings with her…"

"But, sir," Booth protested, "why? I've already narrowed down the missing persons list, and we were just about to go interview family members."

"Not together you're not," Cullen said bluntly. "I'm separating you and Dr Brennan, at least temporarily. Based on your recent ordeal at the hotel, and on Dr. Sweets' recommendation."

Booth gaped at him.

"So until further notice," Cullen went on, "you and Brennan aren't going out in the field. But since you did just complete a successful stakeout, you can partner with Fleming or someone else. And if your squint still wants to go out, she can be assigned to another agent."

Another agent? Booth thought, No, they can't--

He was aware of some unnamed emotion welling in his chest, like water so hot it actually felt cold.

"Sweets thought--" Cullen picked up a paper from his desk, "he said he 'could not ascertain whether it would help or harm you to go into the field with Dr. Brennan at this time.' Given the current strain on your relationship," he continued to paraphrase, "even going on some of the more innocuous trips would place undue stress on both of you. Especially you, he says." Cullen looked at Booth from under raised eyebrows, as if trying to detect something visibly wrong with him.

What does Sweets think we are, Booth wondered, invalids? Nutcases?

And how could he think, how could he possibly think that my being away from Bones would ever help? It would be the opposite of help. Booth hadn't realized, until this moment, how sure he was about that.

With effort, he herded his thoughts into a polite question. "Sir… Does Sweets' recommendation get that much weight? It's not that… I'm on probation, because of something I did or didn't do back at the hotel?"

"I'm willing to take Sweets' word for it, yes. And as for your actions… I read the reports." He pushed back in his chair. "Yeah, Booth, it was a tough call. You did things by the book, more or less." Cullen brushed carelessly at some lint on his trouser leg. "With armed suspects, and too many variables… that kind of situation, you could've gotten yourself and your squint killed. That would not have been a pretty clean-up for us, let me tell you. But you didn't. You got out of there with minimal damage. And some intell that we didn't have before.

"So, you're not on report," Cullen said, with what he must've thought was a reassuring tone, "you're just sticking to the usual stuff, not partnering with the Jeffersonian. Until you do whatever Sweets wanted--" he grabbed the paper again and frowned at it, "to address the underlying issues between the two of you."

"But Sweets doesn't…" Booth began. "I mean--" What could he say? "I don't think Bones wants to work with another agent," he blurted. Was it the truth?

"I guess that's up to the two of you, and Dr. Sweets," Cullen said, toying with a picture frame on his desk. "But how likely is it she'll want to leave the lab after this?" His tone was half cynical, half hopeful, as if staying in the lab would be convenient: it would make the situation simpler for everyone. "And honestly," Cullen said, "you think she'll ever want to go out in the field with you again? I mean, I don't claim to know that much about women, but trust is definitely a big thing with them."

Booth looked at Cullen's bald head, his disapproving eyebrows, and hated him with a bitter fury. You don't know Bones at all, he wanted to yell. You've never liked her, never understood her…

But all that was to cover up a much larger feeling: the sick dread sinking into his stomach.

Cullen jabbered on, about how Booth should arrange things with Romero to get the John Doe files, and how he should arrange things with Sweets.

Booth nodded at the appropriate places. When Cullen seemed to have finished, he said, "I'll keep you updated," and left the room. He walked down the corridor in a daze.

_You take a squint out into the field, she is your responsibility. _Those had been Cullen's words to him some three years ago. What had started as just another warning from the boss had quickly become something Booth took intimately to heart. And those words had drummed through his head many times in the past few weeks.

Booth rounded a corner, and narrowly missed colliding with someone. Mumbling an apology, he kept walking.

Cullen thought Sweets had done this to protect Brennan--maybe even to protect her from Booth. But Sweets, in his misguided way, thought Booth was the one who needed protecting.

And Cullen did not know how well Brennan could take care of herself. He only saw two sides of her: the arrogant side that disregarded policy, a reckless or naïve troublemaker. And the squint side, narrow and pedantic, someone who needed constant watching when out in the real world.

Booth reached a dead end, and mindlessly pushed open the door to the stairwell. He exited one floor down, and continued walking through hallways, past offices and interview rooms.

His boss had not really read those reports. If he had, he would know how capable Brennan really was. She had rescued Booth from the crime scene, not the other way around.

Trust, Cullen had said. _Do you think she'll ever want to go out in the field with you again_?

But he doesn't know her! Booth thought again, desperately. She _has _been out in the field with me, she…

Booth stopped walking. His chest still felt hot and cold by turns. He was standing next to a window where sunlight slashed around the edges of the shades in a blinding rectangle.

He had to go to Sweets and straighten this mess out. He had to go straighten _Sweets _out.

No, he thought. If I see him right now, I'm liable to kill him. Besides, there was something much more urgent to do first.

**

Booth drove to the Jeffersonian like someone possessed. He screeched into a spot in the parking garage, and climbed the stairs two at a time. He would not slow down to think about what he was doing. He simply had to find out.

As he entered the glass doors and neared the lab platform, he plunged a hand into his pocket for his access card, but it wasn't there. Fuck it. He was not going to waste time fishing around.

Booth pounded up the stairs. The alarm blared, and the two security guards started chattering into their walkie-talkies. Charging past them, Booth headed straight for the table where Brennan and Zach were absorbed in one of their skeletons.

**

Brennan held the right ilium up to eye level. She was examining the acetabulum, the bowl-shaped socket of the hip joint. After a moment, she handed it to her grad student at the other side of the table. "What do you notice here, Zach?" He peered at the bone, but before he could answer, the lab platform's access alarm shrieked through the air. Zach winced and covered his ear with one hand, still holding the ilium in the other.

Booth appeared at the foot of the table, as if out of nowhere. Brennan looked up, surprised as much by his presence as by the alarm.

Forgetting caution, Booth clamped his hand around her arm and started to drag her toward her office, shouting over the alarm, "I need to talk to you."

"Booth!" she cried in a reproachful tone, but did not try to resist.

He pulled her back down the stairs, past the befuddled guards. "Agent Booth," one said, "what--?" It was lucky they knew him, he thought, or they would probably have thought he was kidnapping Bones.

"Sorry," he grunted, not sounding sorry at all.

Brennan finally shook off his grasp as they reached the threshold of her office, and took the opportunity to shed the sterile gloves she still wore. Booth gestured brusquely for her to precede him inside, then shut the door behind them. The alarm had stopped, but one of the guards had followed them partway, and was surreptitiously watching through the glass wall of the office.

Brennan rubbed her arm where he had grabbed her. "Booth," she said, "What is the matter with you?"

"Do you want to stop being my partner?" he demanded.

"What? I--"

"Just answer the question!"

Her eyes searched his. "No. Is the FBI trying to split us up?"

"Cullen is considering it. Temporarily, he says." Booth tried to hold himself very straight, bracing for the next topic. "Do you still want to go out in the field with me? Or--with another agent? Or at all?"

Brennan was shaking her head; it was too much to take in. But she knew the most important issue when she heard it. "I don't want to work with anyone else."

Booth instantly felt a portion of his aggression melt, but it was still just a small band-aid on a much bigger hurt.

"I don't want to be confined to the lab, either," she said. "Booth, what is going on? Cullen has no right to decide such things without even mentioning it to me. Maybe I should go talk to him."

"No, Bones--that's not a good idea." Booth did not want her anywhere near Cullen, not after what he had said.

"Because he doesn't like me?"

Booth shook his head; she was distracting him from the point. "No, I just came from Cullen's office," he explained. "He's going to separate us, at least for now. And maybe keep us out of the field, or only let us go out with other agents, I don't know."

He made a frustrated growl in his throat. "Sweets, it's all his fault! He sent Cullen some memo, after yesterday. What did we say that made him--? Damn that kid, what does he think he's doing?" Booth slammed the heel of his hand into the door frame hard enough that, overhead, the rolled-up blinds shivered.

Brennan watched him with a frown. Most people, confronted with this level of anger from Booth, would've been intimidated. She was not; she was worried.

He exhaled a snorting breath, then turned back to face her. "Bones…" he suddenly sounded very vulnerable. "Just say it. Do you still want to go out in the field with me?"

"Yes, Booth. I _have _said it. I mean, we still have cases to solve, and someone has to catch the murderers."

_Someone _has to. Whether she intended it or not, Booth felt the implication like a slap in the face: because I let some of those murderers go.

"But I won't deny that it's challenging," Brennan said, "especially after what happened." Her voice tightened. "Dealing with criminals, or even family members, is very stressful. And I'm certainly going to think twice about going into an isolated room, unarmed, with suspected drug dealers."

Oh, god. Booth couldn't even respond to that one. He looked helplessly at her: the way the deep blue lab coat made her eyes look like varied hues of glacial ice.

"I don't want to work with some other agent," Brennan repeated. "But it's hard, given your recent behavior."

That startled him. "Me?"

"Yes!" she cried. "One day, you're all gentle and subdued, looking like a dog someone kicked, and the next, you're like an unexploded bomb. I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

Booth felt a shriveling shame somewhere in his lungs. She was the one who had a right to emotional extremes. She was the one he should be anxious for, not other way around.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he said softly. "I'm really sorry. But I'll go to Sweets, go back to Cullen, and tell them…" He trailed off, feeling thwarted. He didn't know what he could tell them that wouldn't get him fired.

He had turned halfway to the door, intending to leave, for lack of another option. They had been facing off with several feet of office floor between them, but now Brennan stepped closer, almost close enough to touch.

"Booth, wait. This didn't just happen to you." Her voice was an odd mix of accusation and concern. "It's my problem too. Let me help."

"All right," he exhaled. "Yeah." His dark eyes fixed on her with a cheerless intensity. "But we do have to talk to Sweets and Cullen, okay, before they do something drastic, like lock you in the lab, or give you to another agent, or shut me in a padded room."

Bones tried to smile at that, but did not succeed. "Why don't I talk to Sweets," she suggested. "We're supposed to meet with him again tomorrow…"

"God, that's right," Booth groaned. "No--I can't do it. If you can stand to talk to him, fine, but I just… At least give me until next week to deal with him. Instead, I could…" His voice turned grim. "I'll handle Cullen. Somehow."

**

"Anyone care to tell me what that was about?" Cam asked, stepping onto the lab platform.

Before the security guard could explain, Zach said, "Agent Booth just abducted Dr. Brennan. He said he merely wanted to talk to her, but I would say that 'abduct' is a more accurate description."

"Abducted," Cam echoed skeptically.

"To her office," Zach said.

Angela appeared behind Cam. "Oh my god, did you see that? What is going _on _with them?"

Cam was at a loss. "I have no idea."

"Was that Booth?" Now Hodgins had joined the little knot of people.

"Yes," Angela said, and lowered her voice as if to relate a juicy tidbit. "So, I stick my head out of my office because I hear the access alarm, and there's Booth, literally dragging Brennan by the arm." She seemed torn between consternation and fervent curiosity.

"I didn't know if I should cheer, or go rescue her," Angela continued. "But I hung around by one of the spare exam tables, so I could see a little into that fishbowl office, and…" She shook her head. "Whew. It's intense, whatever it is."

"So," Cam said, "we are all congregating here, why, exactly?"

"Come on, Dr. Saroyan," Hodgins begged, "have a heart. This is Brennan and Booth we're talking about. We don't know what's going on, but we do know _something _needs to happen. They might not be able to survive otherwise."

Cam looked like she wanted to chastise his impudence, but had to agree with the assessment.

"Booth has been acting pretty meek lately," Angela observed. "It's nice to see he got his mojo back--the way he just barged in here, and hauled her off to somewhere private." She gave Jack a sly look. "It was kinda sexy, actually."

His blue eyes glittered at her. "I'll have to remember that."

"Now, now, you two," Cam warned. "Can we pretend that this is a working laboratory and not--" She stopped, catching sight of Booth leaving Brennan's office.

She was about to hail him, but Angela beat her to it, swiftly exiting the lab platform to intercept him as he strode across the room. "Hey, Booth," she said, trying to think of the best comment with which to waylay him. "We, uh--"

He looked at her, but barely slowed down. She felt his gaze penetrate right through her, like she was insubstantial. Even Angela, who could approach anyone, was put off by his demeanor. He had a freight train look about him, she decided. She would not risk derailing it. Or getting run over.

But she could go check on her best friend. She was almost afraid to see what state Brennan might be in. When she reached the doorway, she saw Brennan standing in the middle of her office, facing away from the door. Just standing there.

"Brennan…?"

Her chin moved, but she did not turn around. "Angela."

"Is…everything okay?"

After another moment, she faced her friend. She was not crying, but she looked… like she'd just lost her family all over again.

"Booth said…" She was still struggling to make sense of it. "Sweets and the FBI, they're thinking about severing our partnership."

Angela put a hand to her throat. "Wow. I didn't think… Is there anything I can do?"

Brennan shook her head. "I don't know. I have to talk to Sweets tomorrow, get his explanation. Booth…wasn't acting very rational."

"Well, that's normal for him, right?" Angela tried to smile. But when Brennan didn't respond, she came forward, wanting to hug her. "Sweetie--"

"No, Angela. No." Brennan sidestepped, holding up a fending hand.

Okay, thought Angela, she can't handle kindness right now.

Brennan reached the door, and her palms-up gesture became a placating one. "I'm sorry. I have to get back to work." She knew she was being rude, but could not summon the resources for any further discussion.

**END NOTE: **If anyone would like a nice audio-visual experience of Booth's jealousy, check out this You-tube video I discovered:

.com/watch?v=F0WrWPS-K84

I don't know the person who put it together, but it's well done. I heard the song first ("Mr. Brightside" by The Killers) and immediately imagined a B/B context, so it was great to find that someone else had made the connection too. (Okay, I don't think the link will work, but search for the song title with "Booth Brennan.")

There's now a second version, made after the finale, with Jared as the jealous party:

.com/watch?v=1A_ocOSnbi8

I think the song's use of rhyme, to suggest one word while saying another, is clever and naughty without being in bad taste.

FYI, it's great to listen to during spin classes or similar activities, because the combination of exercise endorphins and B/B addiction is a truly potent mix. (Try it! It's totally legal!)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **I got a kick out of all the comments fearing for Sweets' life, after what he did last chapter! Yeah, B&B are pretty mad, but so far, it's all just talk.

**Part 10**

In the time it took Booth to march across the lab, the uncertainty he had felt in Brennan's office had solidified back into anger. He waited until he was through the hissing glass doors and walking down a bare hallway before he punched Sweets' number on his phone.

The voicemail clicked on, which was just fine with him. There was no way he wanted to hear the kid's psycho-babble rationalizations right now.

"Sweets," Booth bellowed into the recording, "what the hell do you think you're doing, fucking with our partnership like that? You went to Cullen behind my back! At least have the balls to tell me to my face next time. But if you ever do something like that again, you smart-ass little prick, so help me…"

He drew breath, waiting for another inspired stream of invective, but none came. Instead, he felt drained. After the long session of partners' therapy, the stakeout and chase, and now this--he was emotionally wiped out.

"How can you think," he said to Sweets' machine, "that taking me away from Bones could possibly help? It's--She's--" Booth had no words. "I need to keep working with her. If she'll still have me." That last phrase was so quiet it might not have registered on the recording. "Just--Sweets…" he finished wearily, "I'll talk to you later."

Booth returned to his car in the dank parking garage. It was obvious that he would not be at all productive for what little remained of the workday. Out of habit, he headed for the gym.

After a quick warm-up run on the treadmill, Booth went to the side room that served as the boxing area. There he found a handful of the cocky young guys he sometimes saw. In fact, he had been hoping to run into them for the last few weeks. He had sparred with a couple of them in the past, trading friendly insults, and he knew it would be easy to provoke one into a real fight. That was just the ticket, the kind of mood he'd been in lately.

And today he was in luck. He had only to launch a few challenges and insinuations before one guy, Justin something, took up the gauntlet. Not much older than Sweets, he sported a scraggly goatee and a much more aggressive nature. But then, thought Booth, almost anyone looks aggressive next to Sweets.

They faced off in the empty corner by a wall of windows. Booth focused on keeping his footwork light and quick, and in maneuvering his back to the windows in hopes that the glare would get in his opponent's eyes.

But he soon realized that his heart was not in this fight. He had known all along he couldn't keep beating punching bags or random guys as a way to expel his emotions. But, he had told himself, it just until they caught the real criminals. Just until he could figure out where he really stood with Brennan.

Ducking a left hook, Booth danced in close and landed an uppercut to the belly. Instantly he dropped back, bobbing, guarding his face, and watching for another opening.

Justin's onlooker buddies had stopped their taunting, once they'd seen that "the older guy" knew what he was doing. It was true Booth had wanted to challenge one of them--like that square-jawed kid with the hard bully exterior. He looked a bit like Rawling, and Booth's fists itched to crack that shell and reveal the jelly inside. Or this kid, Justin--he'd craved a solid, school-yard scrap that would wipe the arrogance from his eyes, and turn that smugness into caution and respect.

But now that Booth had the chance, he was not so angry. He was distracted. His opponent aimed another hook, and Booth didn't get his guard up fast enough. The kid scored a hit near his eye, leaving a small cut in the skin under his eyebrow.

Booth swiped at the smear of blood. The sting got his attention: he had to get his head back in the game. He had to get out of this without someone getting hurt or humiliated.

Tucking his chin and not taking his eyes off the other guy, Booth jogged in place. He concentrated on fighting smart and efficient, rather than brutal and powerful. When he saw the chance, he gave a swift jab to the center of the guy's face.

His rival stepped back. He dabbed his nose on his glove, finding blood. Booth was afraid he'd seek revenge, but today he must've been in a good mood, because he gave a grudging grin. They had both drawn blood, and through an unspoken code, they were even. They could end the fight, if not amicably, at least civilly.

A short while later, Booth stood over a sink in the locker room. He trickled cold water over his cut eyebrow. No, he was no longer so angry. The rage he felt toward the suspects, and himself, was no longer the most important thing. What he felt now was fear.

The risk of losing his partnership with Brennan--it superseded everything else. It knocked the wind out of him like a punch to the gut.

Booth looked at himself through the smudges on the mirror. He had been too wrapped up in his own guilt. He had been selfish, but this wasn't just about him. Bones had tried to tell him that, in her office. This was about her too. About both of them.

**

When Sweets checked his voicemail before going home that night, he found a dire message from Angela, right after the one from Booth.

"Sweets," she said, "you and I have always gotten along pretty well. I can usually respect your judgments, and you've given me some helpful insights at times. But right now, you had better know _exactly _what you're doing with Booth and Brennan. She's my _best friend_, okay? And I would do just about anything to keep her from getting hurt." Angela paused, before thinking of something else. "I guess if you're a shrink, you don't have to take the Hippocratic oath like doctors. But you'd do well to remember it: First, do no harm."

Sweets let out his breath when the recording ended. After two warnings in a row, he felt like he was in over his head. He did _not _want to get on Booth's bad side, or Angela's for that matter. But…no. He would hold fast to his convictions in this case.

He saw the partners at a sort of crossroads. They could either run from each other, from the fear and guilt, or they could pull together.

Booth and Brennan were like highly reactive chemicals that had been keeping themselves separate. But intermixing was necessary for life. They needed a bit of agitating, a bit of stirring, in order to start a reaction and move forward. Sweets himself was the catalyst.

Booth had needed that prodding to release the feelings he was suppressing--feelings he thought would hurt or offend his partner. But she, despite her lack of intuition and interpersonal skills, could deal with more psychological turmoil than she gave herself credit for. She had surprised Sweets, on occasion, with her ability to negotiate degrees of emotional complexity, particularly with people she was close to, like Booth.

Sweets would not describe himself as a gambler. But now, even though the stakes were high, he was betting. He would venture that the pattern he had observed as long as he had known Brennan and Booth would hold true: that the varied forces of attraction between them would be strong enough to overcome the dividing ones.

**

When Brennan went to bed that night, it did not occur to her that the next day would be exactly three weeks since the events in the hotel suite. But, as if her subconscious had marked the date, she dreamed she was back, locked in that bedroom with the criminals.

She knew Booth was bound in the other room. Unable to help, but able to hear her if she screamed--and should that make her feel better or worse?

Brennan was more afraid for her life than she had been at the time. Rawling had unsheathed his knife, and it glinted in the dim dreamscape. They struggled. The tip of the knife pricked her hands, leaving defensive cuts. If she was killed, she thought, someone like Dr. Saroyan would note them as evidence. Then Rawling's blade angled down, aiming toward her ribs and belly. She tried to fend it off, but the slicing metal came inexorably closer.

With a great wrench, she forced the dream into freeze-frame, although she did not manage to wake up. She mentally held that knife away, wishing fiercely for an escape route. Her brain soon provided one. For a moment she seemed to float above the suspects, then she was climbing up a flight of metal-lattice stairs. They led to a fire escape, one that was inside the room. It ran along the wall like a catwalk, so close to the ceiling that Brennan had to crawl. The metal grid dug painfully into her knees and palms. At first she went as fast as she could, because the criminals could climb after her. But then she began to feel safer, knowing somehow that they would leave the hotel rather than pursue.

If she could get to the window, she could get away. This metal platform would connect to the fire escape outside, and then to the window of the main room, where Booth was still handcuffed.

She had to get to Booth and summon help, or he would die. They'd injected him with a deadly toxin that could kill him in hours. Or if it didn't--she was certain about this--it would cause irreversible neurological damage. Booth would be in a coma. She would be able to see him, touch him, but not really reach him at all.

Yet she could not get to the window. The catwalk took a circuitous, maze-like route. She ran into dead ends, or turns that went in the wrong direction, or damaged staircases that hung at dangerous angles, unable to support her weight.

And once she got to Booth, how would she get him out of the handcuffs? She needed--wait. The criminals had not, in fact, taken her keys away from her. She felt them in the pocket of her jacket, dragging down the hem as she crawled along.

She had to get to the window and get back to Booth. Then she could unlock the cuffs and they could both flee, toward help and safety. Still on hands and knees, Brennan dug the metal key ring out of her pocket. Which one matched the handcuffs? She tried to see the keys in the dark, feeling each one to identify it. Suddenly they slipped from her grasp. Panicking, she grabbed for the tiny silver cuff key. It came loose from key ring and tumbled out of reach, making a tinkling sound as it hit the metal platform. In another second it would fall between the slats, and she would lose it. She lunged, stretching her arm as far as she could, trying to catch the key before it went over the edge.

Brennan came awake, her arm extended off the side of the bed, grasping at thin air.

**

The next day, Booth sat across from Agent Fleming's desk, pages of military insignia spread out between them. They had already spent hours sorting through insignia used by regiments in the last ten years, and had managed to narrow the list by consulting Angela. Her artist's eye for pattern could eliminate those designs with too few matching elements.

"I can't believe," Fleming complained, "how many regiments use logos exactly like all three of these reconstructions." He gestured at Angela's black and white renderings.

"Yeah," Booth said, "and how many military people look exactly like Anders' hallway security guy." Or rather, what little they could tell about him from the hotel's grainy surveillance tape. Along with checking insignia, the two agents had been trying to match the suspect's description to people in the military personnel database.

The main search, for Anders and Rawling, was not going well. The most promising leads--credit card and license plate numbers--had turned into dead ends, just as Booth had discovered in his own parallel investigation. Anders had simply covered his tracks too well. This hunt for the extra security man was a peripheral one…but it was better than doing nothing.

Fleming flipped through another list, among the papers strewn over his desk. This one inventoried possible matches for both the military motif and mug shot. The agents planned to contact each one, either by regiment, individual soldier, or commanding officer, and show them stills from the security tape. Perhaps someone would recognize a comrade or past recruit.

It was a pretty long list. "So…" Fleming said. "You want to divvy up the names?" He looked dubious, as if he didn't think that would be a great idea, but nonetheless expected Booth to pounce on it.

A week ago, he would have. But now? He though of what Bones had said to him in Sweets' office. There were too many possibilities, he thought, for failure and false leads. It would feel too much like punishment.

"No," he answered. He would stick to his assigned cases. Let Fleming do the grunt work, narrowing down the possibilities. "Once we get a real lead, then--"

Booth's phone buzzed against his leg. He pulled it from his pocket and saw that it was Brennan. "I have to take this," he said to Fleming, and went into the hall.

"Bones?"

She sounded harried. "I just came from talking to Sweets."

"And?" Suddenly on edge, Booth glanced along the wall, where a row of wooden plaques were displayed. Fancy gold lettering named people who had been honored by the Bureau over the years.

"I had to make it clear I was there for explanations," Brennan said, "and not therapy. Sweets… he used a lot of psychological jargon that made no sense to me. And he kept referring to some misguided scientific comparison, about the two of us being chemicals and him being…" She decided it was not worth rehashing. "The point is, I told him that if his actions in going to Cullen were part of some experiment he's running on us, and if he was threatening our partnership just to get more data for his research, that I would--"

"You would what?" Booth felt a niggling curiosity.

"That I would report him to the ethics committee," Brennan fumed, "and get his degrees taken away, and that he would have to spend his time standing around a used car lot, manipulating people into buying unreliable vehicles--which would also be unethical. Or," she kept ranting, "what might be even more satisfying, I would let you beat him up, and I would enjoy watching it. Or I would help."

Whoa, thought Booth. Would I have liked to see the look on Sweet's face.

"Way to go, Bones," he tried to joke. "You let me know when and where we should give the kid a good thrashing, and I'll be there."

She made a noise in her throat, that might have been a release of anger, or an abbreviated laugh.

"As for our course of action," she went on, "Sweets insisted that we spend some time together to…talk…and figure things out. That was the only way he would rescind his recommendation to Cullen. But, I did get him to agree that we could meet on our own, that we wouldn't have to be in his presence."

"You did? We don't have to be under his microscope? That's great, Bones."

"Well, it was relatively easy, once I'd threatened him. He must have believed I was sincere, because he exhibited several indicators of anxiety, even fear--which is a very powerful motivator."

Bones, Booth wanted to announce, I'm going to have to use more of your talents in the interrogation room.

She continued, "Sweets said that as long as he could see proof, in the near future, that we had come to some easier understanding, that would be sufficient. However," Booth could tell she was frowning, "I am unclear as to what would constitute 'evidence' in this matter, given that psychology is such a diffuse and inexact field."

"We'll let Sweets worry about that." Booth ran his finger over one of the shiny gold plaques on the wall, leaving a smudged print. "Well… If all we have to do is talk… I mean, if he's holding this over our heads, I'm willing to do whatever the kid says. Whatever it takes not to get assigned a new partner."

"I agree," Brennan said.

There was a second of silence. They were equally committed to this. That was comforting to know.

"So… What should we do?"

"We could meet this weekend," he suggested. "At the diner?"

"No," Brennan said, "I think I would prefer one of our apartments."

"Okay, but…you know I have Parker on Saturday. And you have that thing at Hodgins' house."

"Then Friday, or Sunday? No, wait," Brennan remembered, "I'm supposed to meet my publisher on Friday. Maybe Sunday…" She said slowly, "You could come to my apartment for dinner."

"That's…that would be nice, Bones," he said, just as slowly. "Thanks." What am I, back in high school? But no, he had never been this timid in high school.

"About six?" she proposed.

"Six it is."

Despite his confident answer, Booth had never felt so jittery about dropping by Brennan's apartment. Being alone with her for several hours, without the scaffolding of work to cling to.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Ah yes, it's the lowest-angst chapter so far. Enjoy it while you can…like the calm before the storm. A much-needed storm, right?

**Part 11**

On Saturday afternoon, Brennan rode to Hodgins' house with Camille. The other members of their group would already be there, since Zach lived on the grounds, and Angela often spent the weekend with Jack.

They started with a tour of the house, then trouped down to the walk-out basement level, where Hodgins had a well-equipped rec room. On one wall, sliding glass doors gave onto a patio and small garden. In front of that view stood a pool table, and the other side of the room housed a bar and kitchen, along with a TV, sound system, and racks of CDs and movies.

Hodgins opened the fridge to take out drinks and trays of food. Cam wandered over to the table and surveyed the selection: a variety of sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres, vegetables with dip, and fresh fruit.

"Looks delicious. But what's this," she teased, "no caviar or chocolate truffles? No tuxedo-clad butlers to wait on our every whim?"

"Come on," Hodgins groaned. "I might be rich, but that doesn't mean I have to be some cosseted snob."

"You do have housekeeping staff and gardeners," Zach pointed out.

"_Small _staff," he emphasized. "I can't let it go to seed, can I?"

Brennan walked over to the music collection, and Hodgins suggested she choose something for the CD player. Cam joined her, munching a handful of carrot sticks. After perusing Hodgins' taste in music, they moved on to critiquing the movie collection. ("Not a chick flick in the bunch," Angela lamented.)

Once they had satisfied their initial hunger for lunch, they started a game of pool. Brennan and Zach were novices, but learned quickly. Hodgins, since he owned a table, was very good. So was Cam, and Brennan told her so. "Are you kidding?" she replied. "This was _the _thing to do, one year when I was a cop. After a shift, or a tough arrest, we'd go to the bar and take over the pool table. Of course, it was a rare game when everyone was sober, so I'm probably a bit better now than I was then."

Angela had moved to the other side of the table to take her shot. Bending over, she sighted carefully along the cue stick and tapped the ball, but her aim was off. She watched gloomily as the balls clicked into each other and came to rest again.

"With this game," she grumbled, "I'm hopeless. It doesn't make sense, does it, that I can reconstruct people's faces from fragments of skull, but I can't hit some balls into other balls to make them go in the pocket? I guess I just don't get the geometry."

Brennan rested the base of her stick on the floor, holding it vertically next to her. She watched her friends move around the table, eyeing the arrangement of balls, and focusing on their shots. Aside from the intermittent banter, Brennan thought she had never heard a quieter game of pool--or rather, this group of people being so quiet.

A classic rock CD thrummed in the background. Balls clacked and rumbled across the green felt table. Brennan glanced out to the patio, where birds landed and pecked at the ground, before flitting away again.

The silence was unusual, but not in an uncomfortable way. The feeling she'd had in the lab, that people were walking on eggshells around her, was gone. Her friends were being careful with her, yes, but it was no longer awkward. They simply treated her gently. They did not look at her as though she were damaged.

Zach was lining up his shot. "Did you know," Hodgins said, "that cue chalk is not actually chalk at all? It's not calcium carbonate; it's a compound of silica and aluminum oxide. Putting it on the tip of the cue increases friction and therefore helps you take more accurate shots. There's less slippage with the cue ball."

"Slippage," Angela repeated with a smirk. "I just like hearing you say that."

Well, Brennan thought, there was an example of her observations. A couple weeks ago, Angela might have kept any sort of innuendo out of her conversation. But that was unnatural for her, and the act of editing drew _more _attention. It made Brennan too aware of things that should have been unremarkable.

She took a sip of her iced tea, watching her best friend smile flirtatiously at Hodgins. Was he blushing? It was good to see Angela back to her normal, irrepressible self.

Booth should be here, Brennan thought. He would probably be an expert pool player--although, she realized, she didn't have much evidence on which to base that supposition. The day before, she had given in and told Angela more about their suspended partnership, the agreement with Sweets, and their planned dinner. And if Angela knew, it was likely the others did too. But no one had asked her about it. No one had pressed her for information or emotional responses, and for that she was grateful.

After they had played several games of pool and nibbled the last of the food, Hodgins took them on tour of the grounds. Past the tennis courts and decorative hedges, Zach indicated his apartment behind a copse of trees. Shadows were lengthening across the grass when they all stopped at the pond. A gravel trail winding through the estate sloped gently down to the water, forming a pebbled bank. A large willow tree shaded the area, trailing its branches in the water.

Hodgins bent down and picked up a few stones. "I often come here," he said, "to skip rocks--" he demonstrated, creating three radiating points of ripples on the pond's surface, "or to just look at the water. You know, admiring the diatoms, rotifers and myriad insect larvae."

"Those are all microscopic organisms," Zach pointed out. "It is impossible to admire them without magnification."

Hodgins was unperturbed. "Yeah, but I know they're there. I can see exactly what they look like," he tapped his head, "up here."

"I bet you can." Angela put her hand on Jack's arm. "He has a pretty good imagination, for a science dude." This time when she smiled mischievously, he grinned at her.

Zach was studying them with his head cocked. "Was that meant to be…?" Then he thought better of it. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

Brennan had picked up a few stones to try skipping over the water, and the others followed suit. Hodgins was the best at it--unsurprising, since he owned the pond. Cam, Brennan and Angela were mediocre. But Zach was the worst, which baffled him, because he claimed to understand the underlying physics better than anyone.

"Oh!" Brennan said with disappointment as her pebble plopped rather than skipped.

"Here, Sweetie, I'll show you the way Hodgins showed me." Angela stood with her under the willow tree. "It's like, _Zen and the art of rock skipping_. First you have to select a flat sort of pebble, and examine it for the right aesthetic proportions." Brennan opened her palm so Angela could confirm her selection. "Okay, now you stand like this," Angela turned her friend's shoulders, "at a slight angle to the water. And holding the rock like…that… Index finger along the edge…" Angela positioned herself close behind Brennan's right shoulder and wrapped her hand around the back of hers, to guide her throwing arm. Then she mimed a few tosses: "Make sure the stone is parallel to the water, and then, with a flick of the wrist--" She let go, so Brennan could cast the stone. It made three perfect skips before sinking.

Brennan turned to smile at Angela. "I bet Booth would be good at this," she observed, for the second time that day. It would be nice if he were here, but she would never begrudge him the chance to spend time with Parker. And she could see him teaching his son the technique: how patient and generous he would be.

Zach had been paying close attention to the rock-skipping lesson. He'd watched Angela pressing up against Brennan to demonstrate the skill, speaking softly in her ear. Now he turned to Hodgins. "Was that hot?" he asked under his breath. Without waiting for an answer, Zach raised his voice and said, "I think I would benefit from a demonstration as well."

Angela's mouth quirked. "Nice try, mister I-understand-the-basic-physics-better-than-all-of-you."

He opened his mouth again, but Hodgins groaned, "Za-ach. Just toss your rocks off on your own, okay?"

Zach shrugged, and obediently cast his pebble, achieving two skips before it sank. Then something occurred to him, and he turned back to Hodgins. "Were you being metaphorical?"

Cam smothered a laugh, and even Brennan had to smile.

**

When Cam stopped the car in front of Brennan's apartment, it was fully dark outside. Picking up her bag, Brennan pulled her jacket more tightly around her.

"I'm sorry I lost that shot," Cam said. "I cost us the victory in the girls versus guys pool game. They're probably going to be lording it over us in the lab on Monday."

"It was a difficult shot," Brennan said. "And Hodgins has more opportunity to practice."

They sat still for a minute. Only the neon green dashboard display lit the car's interior.

"I'm glad you came today," Cam said simply.

Brennan nodded. "So am I."

******

On Saturday morning, Booth picked up Parker at Rebecca's condo. But something was wrong. The look on Rebecca's face was one that he instantly recognized: the "I'm mad at you" look. As Booth hugged his son and listened to him chatter about the aquarium, he gauged Rebecca's expression. It was, more specifically, the "I'm very angry at you but I'm waiting until Parker's not in the room with us" look. But Parker was too excited about the trip to give them a chance to talk privately. Whatever it was would have to wait until they got back.

Booth resolved not to let it spoil the day. He was always glad to spend time with his kid, and felt especially grateful for it this weekend.

He and Parker took the train to the museum grounds. The rode on the second level, where Parker exclaimed about the blue-tinted windows, and how some seats faced backward, and decided that the whole experience rated as "awesome."

While they ambled through the aquarium, Booth enjoyed Parker's opinions of the marine exhibits and sea creatures. Starfish, with five arms and no head, were "really weird." Jellyfish were "like plastic bags, only pretty and alive," and after watching sharks, it was, "can I have a baby one for a pet?" Booth suggested they might get a toy one in the gift shop instead.

They left late in the day, still scenting the briny air in their noses, repeating factoids they had learned, and marveling at the bizarre and beautiful creatures they had seen.

Back at Rebecca's, Parker ran outside to play with his new plastic models of a whale and shark. Booth watched him through the glass door as he ran around the grass, swimming the toys through the air next to him, and bumping them into each other as if they were fighting.

Then he sighed, braced himself, and turned to face Rebecca. She didn't waste any time.

"Seeley, why the hell didn't you tell me the whole story, about what happened to you at that hotel? Like how dangerous those criminals were, or how they injected you with some unlabeled syringe! Drug smugglers are bad enough, but they killed somebody too?"

Booth was frowning. "How did you know that?"

"I--" She looked embarrassed for a second, then defiant. "I called one of the other agents you work with. Fleming." Before he could say anything, she went on defensively, "I mean, what was I going to do? You barely said three words to me about it. I do have a right to know some details of your job, and the risks, for Parker's sake if not my own."

Fleming, Booth thought with disgust. Was that why he'd been so accommodating lately? Because he felt guilty about letting things slip to Rebecca?

"I didn't lie to you," he said. "We lied to Parker about what happened, but I didn't--"

"Yes, of course we're going to lie to him," she interrupted, "when some crazy man pulls a gun on his father and keeps him tied up in a room!"

Booth's face darkened but he said nothing.

"You just weren't ever going to tell me, is that it? Better I don't know, so I don't get all hysterical on you?"

That's basically what you're doing now, Booth thought, but of course he knew better than to say it.

She gave a loud sigh of exasperation and went to the kitchen, angrily banging cupboards to get out pans and cooking utensils. Booth trailed after.

Rebecca put a spatula on the counter and turned, looking like she'd just remembered something. "Fleming said the search wasn't turning up any useful leads," she said. "About the suspects?"

Booth shook his head in confirmation.

"Okay, but I'm confused about something. Two criminals, right? And they both got away?"

"Yeah."

"But why…? I don't understand. No shots were fired?"

Booth stared at her.

"They pulled a gun on you, and you didn't shoot back? With your sniper training, you--" Rebecca was shaking her head, honestly puzzled. "But you didn't kill anyone?"

His stomach dropped. So she thought so too. She had expected him to prevail, to instantly respond and--what?--blast his way out?

Something must have showed on his face, because she spoke more gently. "I thought maybe that was why you're upset, and acting strangely--if you killed one of them and still felt guilty, even though…"

"No," was all he could say. But he knew _this _expression of Rebecca's too. If he didn't give her something more, she would badger him until he did.

"Look, there were two guns, okay? They each had one; that made the situation more risky. And…"

Rebecca nodded, like she was trying to understand.

"There was… My partner was there too."

"Dr. Brennan." Rebecca nodded again. "Is she okay?"

"She was hurt," Booth croaked. "She…"

Rebecca's blue eyes crinkled with concern. "She didn't get shot?"

"No." Booth was leaning against one of the dining chairs, his hands resting on the top of it. He dug his fingers into the cushion. "They… The two guys. They hurt her."

Rebecca got it. "Oh, god."

She looked guilty now, he thought. Maybe seeing that her comments--_you didn't shoot back? With your sniper training?--_had hit hard. Well, at least she's candid. Always has been. Sometimes he could appreciate it and sometimes it royally pissed him off. She was kind of like Bones, now that he thought of it. Always spoke her mind, for better or worse.

Rebecca had paused with her hand on the refrigerator door. "You and Dr. Brennan. You two still aren't…?"

"No," he said curtly. "We aren't." Wisely, Rebecca decided to drop the whole topic.

For lack of anything else to do, Booth helped her start cooking the meal. Parker ran in, asking if his father was staying for dinner. "I'd love to, buddy, but not this time," Booth told him. "And you, if I remember, have that science project to work on this weekend. Plus you have to get up early tomorrow for Sunday school." Parker grumbled a little, but went obediently to wash his hands.

Rebecca turned from the stove, pointing her spatula at Booth. "Just promise me, will you, that you'll tell me next time? I mean, if something major happens, that you'll give me more than the two-sentence summary. Because we're both still Parker's parents. We should be aware of certain events in each other's lives. Only there better not _be _a next time, because I want Parker to grow up having a father."

When Booth left soon afterward, he walked down the street to where he'd parked under a maple tree. He got into the car, but sat there without starting the ignition.

His recent resolve to be less selfish and angry was being severely tested. First Cullen and now Rebecca! Who was next, some random guy on the street? Maybe a cop would pull him over on his way home, come up to the window and say, Hey Booth, how did you manage to fuck up so badly? Letting yourself get disarmed and handcuffed, so two serious felons could get away? After what they did to your partner?

Booth rested his head on the steering wheel. He was never going to make it until Sunday. Dinner with Bones, twenty-four hours from now? On one hand, the time was passing too slowly. He wanted to get it over with, like a trip to the gallows. On the other hand, he wanted to freeze time, here, this weekend, when he could just be Parker's dad and nothing else. Not a former sniper, not FBI. Not someone's partner to be counted on; to call or be called in times of crisis.

**

**A/N: **Ok, I'm trying not to take too long with the next section. But lots of important stuff has to happen; I want to get it right.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **I have been trying to get our characters to this scene for ages! (You probably feel the same way.) I thought first it would've happened a week ago in the timeline. No, I didn't mean to drag it out, but it just seemed that more stuff had to happen beforehand. So--finally--hang on, here we go.

**Part 12**

At about 4:30 Sunday afternoon, Brennan was sitting before her laptop, in the corner of her living room by the window. The recent meeting with her publisher had motivated (or guilted) her into resuming work on her novel. She skimmed through the few chapters she had written, and leafed through some handwritten notes. Mostly though, she stared at the screen.

It had been a pleasant enough weekend. She had enjoyed yesterday's social event--hanging out with friends, she supposed was the applicable phrase. Earlier today she'd gone grocery shopping, to acquire everything for this evening's dinner with Booth. She had decided to serve Three Sisters stew, a dish incorporating the famous triad of corn, beans and squash, which had formed a central part of the diet of many native peoples. It was tasty and easy to prepare, cooked with rice, chicken broth, and a dash of cumin. She hoped Booth would not be affronted by a meatless meal, but she could explain that this combination of rice and legumes afforded nutritionally complete protein.

Brennan typed a few lines about the murder that her protagonist was trying to solve. As she had originally written it, Kathy Reichs had discovered the remains of a young female age 18-25. But now, re-reading her notes, Brennan thought of Anders' victim. Her bones had been released to her family. She would have had a funeral service, and a gravestone with her name on it. Miranda Charles.

Brennan highlighted the text she had just written, and pressed delete.

This morning she had gone to the weekend karate class. Like last week, she had stayed late, to work out alone. She had been able, for the most part, to keep Anders and Rawling out of her mind. Her ribs had not hurt. She had not cried.

Now she let her mind wander, and her fingers began tapping the keys. What adventures would Kathy Reichs have this time…? She would look at cross sections of bone under the microscope. She would make phone calls, neglecting politeness in her quest for clues. She would flirt with her partner.

But then she went into the field. It was a midnight park or deserted warehouse. She confronted the wrongdoer, insisting on answers. But he had something else in mind. He had a weapon; he menaced her with it. His hands came down on her; his breath was hot on her face. He demanded that she--

Brennan stood up from the desk. She looked at her computer like it had betrayed her, like it would bite her hand, and she closed its lid with a snap.

It was far, far too soon to be writing like this. In six months, maybe; or a few years. It would take at least that long before she could achieve some appropriate distance. Before the words would form anything but pain.

Why had she sent her character into those dark places?

Maybe she didn't even want to be a crime writer anymore.

Brennan turned to her window and opened it, despite the cold outside. She needed the fresh air. The weight of walls and ceiling, even in her own home, felt momentarily smothering.

She looked out the window, where tree branches and neighboring buildings nearly concealed the twinkling city lights. Goose bumps formed on her arms and she unrolled the sleeves of her sweater.

Brennan jumped at a sudden hammering on the front door. It was too early for Booth to be here. She cast around for her baseball bat. Was it in the closet? And _why _didn't she have a gun yet? Hastily she closed the window.

Then a voice came faintly through the wall. "Bones, it's me. Please, I have to talk to you."

It _was _Booth. She crossed the room and looked through the peephole. Even through the fishbowl distortion of the lens, she could tell he was very agitated. As if, she thought, the banging and shouting wouldn't have tipped me off.

He barged in as soon as she opened the door. He wore his typical jacket and black t-shirt, but his look was rumpled and wild-eyed.

She closed the door. "Booth, you're an hour early. What--?"

His eyes were slightly bloodshot, from lack of sleep, or--was it?--from crying.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't take this anymore. I need you to tell me everything." He met her gaze, familiar worry lines creasing his forehead. "I mean, everything you're not saying, about how you really feel. I know those emotions are in there, you hinted at it in the car. I just need to hear it, okay? Let me have it, to my face." He spread his feet apart, bracing himself. "Just like Sweets said, don't try to spare my feelings."

Brennan was frowning, slowly shaking her head. "Booth…I can tell you're upset, but you aren't making sense." Was he angry with her? He clearly wanted something, but she couldn't work out what.

"Please, just put me out of my misery," he moaned. "Let's get it all out in the open."

She tried to clarify. "What about what Sweets said?"

"You know, whatever he asked us, about what we'd say if we didn't have to worry about hurting the other's feelings. So let's just finish what we started in the car, and--"

"In the car?"

"_Yes_, on the way back from the hotel. Bones--just tell me. Tell me anything." He was becoming increasingly distressed and impatient. "I've been sitting by myself all day, trying to--but I can't take this anymore!"

Brennan found herself glancing around the apartment for aid. She wanted to run to the phone and summon Angela or Cam. Apparently, none of them had done a good enough job of monitoring Booth's well-being.

"I'm sorry," she tried to speak calmly, "but you're being irrational. Maybe if you just came and sat down for--"

"Irrational?" he cried. "You bet I'm irrational. How else am I supposed to be, after we were kidnapped and drugged and tied up, and I couldn't do anything to keep my partner from being--from being--"

Brennan had rarely seen this much turmoil in his eyes. "Booth," she said helplessly, "you're scaring me. Are you saying… you're looking for verbal reproof? You're asking to be castigated?"

"No," he said. "Yes. I don't know what that means." He clapped a hand to his forehead. "God, just yell at me, slap me, tell me it's my fault. It can't be any worse than what I've imagined, so--please, just don't be so cool and collected all the time, because I--"

Brennan slapped him across the face. It wasn't hard, but it did what she intended: it shut him up.

Booth put a hand over his cheek.

"I'm sorry," Brennan said. "Was that sufficient to break you out of your self-denigrating diatribe?"

"My--what?"

They were still standing in the middle of the floor, halfway between the living room and the front door.

"Booth," Brennan said, and pointed at the couch. "Sit. I'm pouring you a drink."

She waited just long enough to see that he would obey. Then she went to the kitchen, taking two glasses out of one cupboard, and a bottle of amber liquid from another.

"Did I hit you very hard?" she asked across the room. "Would you like some ice?"

"No…" He sounded dazed. "It wasn't that hard."

Brennan carried the bottle and glasses over to the coffee table. Booth was sitting on the edge of the couch with his head bowed. She took the chair to his left, and poured him a drink. She had to hold it in front of him for a moment before he took it.

Pouring herself a small portion, she asked, "Did you drive over here?"

Booth swirled the liquor in his mouth and swallowed. "Yeah."

"That was not a good idea," she rebuked. "You were very agitated. You could have had an accident."

He did not argue, as she would have expected. He did not defend himself.

She had better try again. "I'm not certain what you want from me, Booth. If it's some sort of absolution… Isn't that what you'd go to church for? That whole…confessing sins, asking forgiveness, doing penance?"

"Well, maybe, Bones, but… I can't go to church for that. I need… I need to hear it from you."

The strong drink had steadied him a little, but the guilty intensity on his face was still alarming.

"You want me to get angry," Brennan asked, "and blame you for something… and then forgive you?" Her brow wrinkled with skepticism.

"Yes!" he cried. "Is that so hard? Why are you keeping this from me?"

"Keeping what?" Her voice rose too. "Booth, I can't grant you something you won't grant for yourself. I mean, you won't ask god, but you'll ask me?"

"Will you leave god out of it for now?" He set his glass down hard on the coffee table. "I know you're not some robot or ivory tower princess. You have to have _some _opinion about what happened in that hotel. Anger or blame--you have to feel _something_."

"Of course I do," she retorted. "You want to know some of my feelings? You want me to get angry? Fine." She stood up. "I am angry at you, a little, for curtailing our impulse to fight right away. And I'm angry at myself for being so scared, for feeling like I let it happen." She started pacing the carpet between the bookshelves and coffee table. "But I'm more angry at those two criminals, who thought they could get away with transporting illicit substances in order to get rich, and who never thought about the effect their actions could have on innocent people, like the twenty-three year old girl they hired as an assistant--who they murdered and maybe raped, just for finding out too much." She had reached the corner by the window and marched back.

"I'm angry because they tied us up, and drugged my partner, and made threats, and forced me to-- So that now I can't get through a simple karate class or chapter of my novel without thinking about Anders' hands on me."

She stopped for breath. Her eyes were fierce, but glimmered with tears. So, she saw, did Booth's.

"And," she pressed on, "I'm angry at the lax security they had at the hotel, that didn't check people for weapons and didn't update their surveillance technology, for creating an unsafe situation in the first place." She came to a stop back at her chair. "Did I miss anyone?"

Booth looked up at her, finding the faintest bit of humor in her tone. "I think you covered it," he said. "But--" he struggled to respond to what she had said. "Bones. I'm sorry. That doesn't even help, but..."

"I know. I'm sorry too."

How, he wondered, could her eyes be so cool, and yet warm at the same time?

"Booth?" Those eyes flickered over him. "Can I take your coat? You must be getting overheated."

"Oh," he said. "Yeah." He shrugged off his jacket. "You don't have to--" but she had already taken it from him, going to hang it by the door.

When she came back, she sat down on the arm of the sofa, sighing as if her expression of anger had worn her out. The armrest made a decent seat, being low and flat. She was only a head taller than Booth, where he sat half a cushion's width to her right.

Booth angled himself toward her, resting one arm along the back of the couch. Her sweater, he realized, was almost the exact hue of the Jeffersonian lab coats. She must not know what that dark teal did for her eyes. He could swim in them.

"Bones," he said softly. "Please. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you don't blame me."

Now she positioned herself to face him, swinging her legs from the side of the couch to the front. "Booth," she said steadily, "I do not blame you for anything that happened."

Finally, he let the breath out of his lungs. It felt like he had been inhaling some of the same stale air molecules for weeks.

"I think I should be thanking you," Brennan said. "You had to make a split-second decision when they pulled those guns on us. Analyzing and weighing a variety of risk factors against possible courses of action. You did what you thought would keep us both alive. And you did. You did protect us, Booth."

"But not from everything." His voice scratched.

"No." She swallowed. "It's not feasible to prevent everything."

Booth looked away, nodding faintly. "Hey, you did more than your share," he told her. "Like your magic knot work? I might still be there if it weren't for you." He attempted a feeble smile, and she tried to mirror it.

"Because you're not Superman," she said, gently sardonic. "I'm not Wonder Woman. We can't save the _entire _world. Maybe just…our little corner of it."

"And…" he asked carefully, "you still want to try? After…?"

"I think so, yes."

He seemed unconvinced.

"Booth," she explained, "our getting caught in that suite--everything that happened--it resulted from a chance convergence of variables. The odds of something like that happening again are extremely low."

"So…" he searched her face. "That's it? You can let it go, just like that?"

"No, not just like that! Of course it's not that easy. You don't know--" She bit her lip. This was not the best way to ease his guilty conscience.

"What I mean is…" he started over, "That's good enough for you, as an explanation? Randomness and chance occurrences?"

"Yes."

Booth wasn't sure he believed her. Or if she believed herself, for that matter. He reached for his glass on the coffee table, and drained it. The liquid tingled all the way down.

Brennan realized she had been seeing something on his face without truly noticing it. "Booth, you have a cut over your eye. What happened?"

He poured himself another glass. "It's nothing."

"Well, it looks like you were in a fight with someone. That's not nothing." He sipped his drink rather than look at her. "Let me see," she insisted, and reached for him, intending to turn his head toward her.

Booth ducked away, sliding further down the couch. "No, it was just some guys at the gym. Boxing match. Sparring."

He could feel her studying him. But right now, he really couldn't worry what she thought about his anger management techniques, because a fresh horror had surfaced in his mind.

He had to take another swallow of scotch before he could say it. "Bones… there's another thing. In that room with them…did you… Tell me you didn't go along with them just because they threatened me." He still couldn't look at her.

"No," she said. "That was a part of it, yes. But I was afraid for myself as much as for you. I thought… I didn't fight more because I was afraid of getting hurt."

Booth held his glass in both hands, between his knees. "I keep seeing you," he mumbled, "coming out of there. Bleeding. Not looking at anyone. The sun in your hair, from that window."

She had crossed one arm over her belly, the other hand by her mouth. "I keep seeing you too," she whispered. "Imprisoned, by that post. Kept from doing what's in your nature. And with some toxin running through your bloodstream, not knowing what damage it might cause."

Booth took another swallow, wanting the burn on the back of his tongue. His eyes burned, too. He replaced his glass on the table, then leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

"Booth."

Brennan, being gentle. He squeezed his eyes tighter, but one traitorous tear made its way out.

"Booth." Damn, she was relentless. He raised his head from the cushion and looked at her. Wordlessly, she opened her arms to him.

There was nothing he wanted more than to lean into her, but he held himself still. "Bones--" his voice cracked. "Are you sure…?"

"Yes, Booth. You're my partner." Her lip trembled for a second, toward a smile rather than tears. "It's a guy hug. Take it."

His own words to her… Booth had no will to argue. He shifted on the sofa, into her embrace.

It was about the furthest thing from a guy hug, but he wasn't going to correct her terminology.

Brennan's right arm came around his shoulders, drawing his head against her chest. His face tucked under her chin, the collar of her soft sweater under his cheek. Her other hand cradled the back of his head, stroking his hair.

His arms locked around her waist. He exhaled raggedly, across her neck.

Brennan felt him start to grip harder. His arms around her torso squeezed tightly, fiercely, until her mostly-healed ribs began to ache with the pressure. But she would not tell him to let go.

His hair tickled her jaw and throat; his left knee pressed into her right.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, muffled against her shoulder. He started to mumble other things: confessions, regrets. About how the criminals got away. How he couldn't stand the thought of them touching her. That he had failed in his side of the partnership. That he was the cop, but he didn't anticipate correctly, didn't keep them safe enough.

At first, Brennan was scared, and out of her element. She wanted to respond rationally to each item, but one ran incoherently into the next.

His body shuddered, and she realized, with a sort of awe, that he was crying. Her sweater was damp under his cheek, and now he took several choked breaths.

"Booth…" She could not do much, but she had her arms, and her voice. Her arms circling his back, her fingers pressing into his trapezius and deltoid. "Hush," she told him. "It's all right."

His hands bunched into the fabric on her lower back. Tension still wracked his body, but he seemed to accept, rather than deny it. His face pressed into her neck.

She understood now, that it did not matter exactly what he said, or what she murmured in response. Holding was enough. Soothing was enough. She could show him they were both all right.

**

**A/N: **Can you forgive the cut-off with the fact that they're still holding on to each other? And don't worry, this scene is far from over.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Thank you all for the reviews. I was more anxious to see how the last section would be received. But, for a couple of you reviewers, I just have to say: *in a stern Cam voice* People! I'm glad you're caught up in the story, but it was not THAT much of a cliffhanger!

We've gotten to the major emotional peak, now we just have to be let down the other side. Still plenty of angst left, though.

**FYI: **In this section, Brennan's anecdote about India might not be accurate. It's based on something an anthropology professor said about ten years ago. (And that makes me feel slightly old.)

**Part 13**

They stayed like that for long moments. Gradually, Booth relaxed. His breathing slowed; his arms slid down from their desperate grip, to clasp loosely around Brennan's hips.

"Bones?" His voice was still muffled against her sweater.

"Hm?"

"There's something else I'm sorry about." He sniffed loudly, and she braced herself for whatever it was. "I totally forgot to bring the wine."

Brennan pushed back on his shoulder so she could get a look at him. His eyes were wet, but they crinkled at the corners in a familiar self-mocking expression. Her mouth curved, and then they both started to chuckle. She pushed him away again, playfully this time, and he flopped back against the couch.

Brennan stood up, so she could stretch muscles stiff from sitting at an angle. She found her own eyes damp, and brushed at them. Booth heaved a sigh, and dug in his jeans pocket for a handkerchief.

"We've been sitting in the dark," she observed. The light outside had faded, and shadows filled the room. Booth blew his nose, and Brennan went to turn on a lamp, in part to give him time to collect himself.

As she walked back past the couch, intending to turn on a kitchen light as well, Booth said, "So, um…. Will you still respect me in the morning? I think I got snot and stuff on your sweater." He looked at her over his wadded-up handkerchief, teasing, but slightly vulnerable.

She said, "You have done the same for me."

His eyes tried to twinkle. They were so dark as to appear black, reflecting points of light. "Just do me a favor, will you? Don't mention to anyone about that display of extreme unmanliness just now."

Brennan looked slightly puzzled, slightly amused. "Booth, in some cultures, male displays of emotion are seen as perfectly normal and healthy. In parts of India, for instance, two heterosexual men will walk down the street holding hands, simply because they are friends."

Booth raised his eyebrows into those little peaks she found so hard to resist. They managed to convey both doubt about her anecdote, and a reminder of what he had asked.

"But," she said, "yes. I understand that as partners, there are some things that are just between us."

**

She refused his help with preparing dinner, insisting it was a simple matter of putting the ingredients in a pot and simmering. "You can just sit there and relax," she said from the kitchen. "And continue getting intoxicated."

He nearly grinned. "Okay. I can do that. That is a fine idea."

"Do you still want wine with dinner? I can open a bottle."

"Because I forgot mine. No, no," he protested, then raised the bottle of scotch in the air. "We can finish _this _off. Yep, this is high quality stuff." He settled back on the couch with his glass. "Makes your tongue tingly and your head light," he rambled. "Makes your troubles float away…"

Brennan shook her head at him, fondly disapproving.

"Hey," Booth said a moment later. "When did you get a TV?" He hadn't even noticed it until now.

"Oh," she answered, "last month. Mostly so Angela and I could have movie night here."

"Where's the remote?" he asked eagerly. "How many channels do you get?"

"No TV until after dinner," she told him sternly. "Why don't you put on some music instead?"

He muttered, "Yes, mom," and went to browse her CD collection.

**

They ate dinner in relative silence, but it was a less troubled silence than the type they had been accustomed to.

Brennan had finished her meal, and took a good swallow of alcohol. Then she asked, "Did you really think I was avoiding you all this time? Because I blamed you?"

Booth dipped a hunk of bread into the last of his stew. "Well…yeah, I guess I did. I didn't know what to think. Or maybe…I just didn't think."

"What was the evidence on which you based that assumption?"

"My evidence?" His voice mocked gently. "Come on, Bones, it was more a feeling with me. You know…" He looked down at the table. "Fear."

She nodded understanding. "I've been--we've all been worried about you. But I was trying to give you space. To let you work, or process things in your own way. But…it _was _hard to be around each other. It might still be."

"I know," he acknowledged. He dropped his crust of bread, and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "But we won't let them do it, okay? Those criminals. Or Cullen. Or Sweets. They can't break us up."

Brennan held his eyes. "Agreed."

Then she took her napkin from her lap and folded it neatly on the table. "But…things aren't miraculously fixed, right? Just because we talked and…"

"Cried?" he volunteered.

Her mouth twisted. "I am glad, if something I said helped you… But…you've been putting this weight on yourself, Booth. You have very high standards. And you have this…thing about saving people. Maybe you need to be nicer to yourself."

He shrugged, tossing his own napkin on the table.

She wasn't finished. "Maybe it doesn't matter if I forgive you or not. You have to do that for yourself."

Booth knew he was a little drunk by now, and did not care to psychoanalyze himself. But he also knew she was right. That kernel of bitterness and rage was still there inside him. It was easier to handle, but it was there.

He looked up. "When did you get so wise, Bones? About emotional things?"

She seemed disconcerted. "I mean," he teased, "this can't be intuition, can it?"

"I simply made a logical deduction," she insisted, "based on available evidence and past behavior patterns."

"Well," he said doubtfully, "okay. But it sounds like intuition to me."

Brennan frowned at him, but between feeling flattered, and the familiar way his eyes laughed at her, a smile was trying to break through.

**

Together they cleaned up the kitchen, then returned to the couch. Setting their scotch glasses back on the coffee table, they sat down about an arm's length apart. Brennan let Booth take control of the remote, and he spent some time exploring the TV's features and selection of channels.

They decided on the classic movie channel that was showing a John Wayne film, although they had missed the first half hour. They ended up missing even more of it, for talking: first trying to figure out what had happened at the beginning, and then taking turns criticizing various aspects of the film. Booth scoffed at the unrealistic fight sequences, and Brennan scolded the racist and anti-feminist undertones--which, she pointed out, were nonetheless useful as representations of attitudes, from the time the film was made, if not the time it was supposed to take place.

By this point, they were both somewhat intoxicated. Brennan had had more scotch with the meal, to match what Booth had consumed beforehand. Her comments shifted quickly from the analytical to the frivolous. And Booth became more careless and relaxed, equally prone to silliness or expressions of emotion.

He had long since kicked off his shoes, and they had both slouched down on the sofa, resting their feet on the coffee table. The hard wood surface made their heels hurt a little.

Booth started doing John Wayne impressions, repeating lines that struck him as particularly stilted or unlikely. His act was a hit with Brennan.

"That time was really quite good," she remarked after his third attempt.

"You probably just think that because we've both a had a few drinks," he told her.

"Well, almost everything is better after a few drinks."

Booth had to agree with that logic. He drawled the next line of dialogue, trying to imitate a cowboy swagger while still lounging on the couch. Brennan laughed out loud. It was contagious; Booth had to laugh too. He realized he had not heard her laugh in a long time. A real, unabbreviated laugh, untouched by bitterness.

Booth found himself wanting to watch Brennan more than the movie. It was probably the alcohol, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered.

He draped one arm along the back of the couch, not quite close enough to be around her shoulders, but close enough to touch her hair. It was slightly tangled, with several strands trailing over the back of the sofa cushion. He wanted to play with one, to wrap it round his fingers and feel its silky strength.

"We forgot Sweets and Cullen," Brennan said out of nowhere, "in our list of people to be angry at."

"Ah--" Booth waved a hand. "Forget them. We'll deal with them later."

"Do you think," she said slowly, "that Sweets did this on purpose? I mean, knowing how Cullen would probably react… that he threatened our partnership, to get us to… do whatever it is we're doing?"

Booth looked over at her. "Is Sweets that smart? That devious?"

She shrugged. "He is very intelligent, although misguided in his choice of occupation."

"And does this mean we would have more reason to kill him," Booth asked, "or less?"

Brennan chuckled.

The movie had ended and another film started, with a long orchestral prelude accompanying the opening credits.

They sat watching the flickering light of the screen. It reflected russet and gold in the dregs of their glasses. A police siren wailed, somewhere far away.

Booth turned his head toward his partner again.

"Are we okay, Bones?" he asked softly.

When she looked at him in this light, her eyes were a dark slate gray. "You mean…us individually, or as partners?"

"Both. Either."

It took her a minute to answer, and her voice rasped a little. "We will be," she said. "We're better than we were. Right?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right."

**

After the first few scenes of the next movie, Booth yawned and looked at his watch. "Well, it's getting late…"

"Do we really have to go to work tomorrow?" Brennan groaned. "If I have a headache, it'll be your fault."

Booth pushed himself off the couch and stood up. "Yeah, all my fault. Plus we can look forward to having to see Sweets one of these days."

Brennan pulled her feet off the coffee table and drew her knees up to her chest. "Booth, you're not driving home. We just about finished that bottle between us."

"Oh, come on," he said. "I'm--"

"No," she cut him off. "First you were too upset to drive, and now you're too inebriated."

"Well--okay… I guess I'll call a cab, or… just crash on your couch?"

"You can stay in the guest room." Brennan stood up. "I'll go get you an extra blanket."

**

They found themselves in the hallway together. Brennan had showed him where the extra towels were, and told him to open or close the heating vent to adjust the temperature in his room. The corridor was shadowy, except for two blocks of light cast onto the carpet from each bedroom.

Brennan stood at the edge of one light patch. "Well…good night," she said.

"Bones?" Booth was suddenly intent. "Tonight… You didn't have to do any of this. But you did. I wanted to say thank you. For dinner. For--the guy hug--everything."

She gave a somber nod.

"Suddenly you're being so nice to me," he tried to joke. "But I've…been too wrapped up in myself. I didn't--"

"Booth, it's all right."

"No, it's not. I mean…what about you, Bones? Is there anything that-- Aside from getting those guys locked up for the rest of their lives…" He studied her, gently. "What will help you feel better?"

Brennan considered. There were a number of possibilities, but she settled on the simplest, truest one. "Time."

Booth's eyes became even more tender, though his mouth hardened. It was an expression she was now familiar with: the knowledge that he was utterly unable to help.

Carefully, he reached out, and touched a loose strand of hair by her ear. Faint alarm showed on her face, but she didn't move. Booth smoothed the tendril back, his fingertips skimming the curve of her ear. Then they hovered by her face, barely touching. His thumb brushed her cheek, so lightly that she felt it more as a hovering warmth, through tiny hair follicles and nerve endings, rather than on the skin itself.

For a moment they both stood very still. Then Brennan reached up--Booth thought, to remove his hand. She wrapped her fingers over the top of his wrist and drew his arm down. Their hands slid around to grip each other tightly.

Brennan sighed wearily, looking down at their joined hands. "There's still so much to do," she said.

Booth shivered a little in his thin t-shirt. "You mean…" he asked softly, "actually catching the bad guys? We will, Bones."

She nodded. "And having multiple charges brought against them. And going to trial… There's still the verification of forensic evidence." Brennan realized she must be very tired right now, because she was thinking in clichés: how strong and warm his hand was, enveloping hers.

"And," Booth finished reluctantly, "we'll still have testify in court."

Her throat moved, but her voice was even. "I know." She gave Booth's hand a brief squeeze, then pulled away.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall. "Okay, Bones. Forget about all that for now. Now is for sleeping." His eyebrows made another slight, endearing arch.

"We've both had enough alcohol," she said, "so that shouldn't be a problem."

"Yeah," he smiled. "Get some rest, Bones. Or should I say, good night, _partner_." He gave the word a lazy cowboy twang.

It won him a quick, flashing smile, before they parted ways, into their respective rooms.

**

**A/N: **There might be a longer wait for the next section--sorry. I like to have at least half the next chapter ready in advance of posting…but I'm getting behind. So I'm not sure how long it'll take to craft my notes into chapter-ready format. But I'm incurably obsessed with this, so you can bet I'll be working on it in spare moments.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Yes, it was a longer wait for this section. I guess the emotions of the last two chapters really tired me out! Either that, or the second part-time job (that just might enable me to pay rent without tapping my savings), or else the 50-mile road bike rides through the foothills that I've become obsessed with.

**Disclaimer**: Passages quoted here remain the property of their very gifted creator. Please see end notes for sources (more specific, this time, than Googling for background info).

Is this chapter a bit more cerebral than most? Oh, that could be a very bad pun. Read to find out why.

**Part 14**

Booth spent a good deal of time lying awake that night, but they were peaceful minutes rather than troubled ones. He felt surrounded by Brennan. Her guest room, her blankets. The smell of her apartment. The smell of her hair, when she'd held him. And the top of her breast under his chin. Her waist and hips under his gripping arms.

Booth turned over, facing the gray-outlined window. This was not the way to get to sleep.

He heard the heat going on, a faint rumble through the metal vents. He nestled his face into the herb-smelling pillow. Bones had been so…generous. With her emotions and with physical comfort. She'd surprised him, there. But it had felt so damn nice.

She let me in, he thought, in more ways than one. She'd offered things. Now, she was lying in bed on the other side of the wall. Had she fallen asleep yet? Or maybe she was hearing the same rattle of the heating vents. It felt companionable, somehow.

When he'd barged into her apartment, she'd been fearful at first. He hadn't been so out of it to have missed the consternation he'd caused. And she'd been wishing--like usual--that he was more logical. But when it came down to it, she'd known what to do.

He just wished _he _knew what to do.

**

In the morning, Booth put on the same rumpled clothes from yesterday. He was tempted to use Bones' shower, but figured it would be better to run home and change before heading back to the FBI building.

He found Brennan at the dining table, holding a cup of tea, and offering him another. She told him it was a special blend of herbs that would help alleviate their headaches. Booth really wanted coffee, but he didn't complain. And Bones was right; his headache had lessened in intensity by the time they'd finished a breakfast of fruit and cereal.

Neither of them spoke much. After yesterday's closeness, they felt a little reserved, and uncertain how to proceed. But they were saved from mentioning it when Brennan's cell trilled, where it rested on the counter.

It was Cam. "We've both been called over to Quantico to help identify remains," she told Brennan. "You know that small plane that crashed off the coast last week? They've pulled the first bodies out of the Atlantic, and sent them to the Forensic Science Research Center. I got the sense it was professional courtesy to ask us, because we're respected in our fields, but it also sounded like a request. Rumor has it, the plane held a lot of corporate VIPs, so they'd appreciate some extra hands down at Quantico, to expedite the identification process."

"If the crash was that recent--" Brennan began, but Cam anticipated.

"No, they won't all be too fleshy for you. Apparently there was an explosion before the crash," she explained. "And with the plane coming apart when it hit the water, and having been in that water for days…there are definite pieces, definite bones for you to work with."

Brennan arranged to meet Cam at the lab before hanging up. She told Booth the news, then grabbed herself a lunch of leftover stew from the fridge, and they both prepared to leave.

**

Brennan picked Camille up from the lab, and they drove to Quantico together. On the way, Cam filled in a few more details. "They suspect it was some mechanical problem that caused the crash, rather than terrorism or foul play. But of course, they still have to analyze the flight data recorder, which they discovered along with the human remains."

Brennan nodded, flipping down the shade over the windshield. The sun was not shining directly into the car, but it seemed awfully bright nonetheless. Cam gave her a funny look. "Are you all right?"

"I seem to have a slight hangover," Brennan said. "From that bottle of scotch Booth and I drank last night."

"Scotch," Cam repeated. "You and Booth. Last night." She might have been teasing, or simply surprised--Brennan could not tell.

"Yes," she said, glancing in her side mirror at a car in the next lane. "As Angela probably told you, we were supposed to meet and talk…so Sweets will be satisfied that we've resolved some of the residual conflict caused by the stress of our…experience in the suite."

"And did you," Cam prompted, "resolve some of the conflict?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad," she said. "As long as," Cam was surely teasing this time, "this means that Booth will stop looking ready to shoot someone or punch holes in the wall."

**

After checking in at the FBI facility, the two women walked into the large, well-lit lab. White-coated people congregated around stainless steel tables, where bodies were already laid out. The smells that assaulted their noses were expected, but no less powerful: old blood mixed with salty brine. Charred flesh, melted metal and plastic. And the heavy, underlying smell of death and decomposition, that couldn't be covered by the typical lab smells of latex and chemicals.

Both women straightened their shoulders a little. Then Cam headed for the tables occupied by body bags, still dripping seawater. Brennan went to the tables with smaller evidence bags, to begin sorting the pieces.

**

At least two people had been in close proximity to the explosion. Brennan's first step was to make sure all the parts were, in fact, human. It would not be unlikely, given the circumstances, to find fish bones, shellfish or seaweed among the tissue. Next, were these remains from the same individual? To that end, she would try to determine the age, gender, race and stature.

At the moment, Brennan was examining what had been someone's head. The base and back of the cranium, to be more precise. She picked up a mass of tissue in her gloved hands. Here was a familiar section of bone, buried in the hunk of flesh: the sphenoid, that joined the cranial and facial bones. It was not diagnostic of gender or age, but Brennan's initial task was to survey the remains in front of her, before engaging in a more detailed sorting of individuals.

The sphenoid was slightly blackened by fire and stained with blood. One side still adhered to muscle, stringy white connective tissue, and purple blood vessels. But its shape was distinctive: the symmetrical sphenoid, like a jagged bow tie, or a bat with open wings. Fragments of the temporal and palatine bones were still bonded to its edges, although the other articulations had been ripped away.

The forces must have been severe, Brennan thought, to have separated the cranium in this manner; whether the size of the explosion, the person's proximity to it, or the shearing forces involved in the crash. Later, she could examine the remains in more detail, and attempt to ascertain what damage had been caused by what type of event.

**

Brennan took a short lunch break in the staff lounge, choosing a table facing a wall of windows. Cam had planned to sit with her, but had spotted an acquaintance she hadn't yet had the chance to talk to. As Brennan dug her spoon into the rice and vegetables, she gazed out at a cluster of trees. Dry leaves dotted the branches, against weak sunlight. Squirrels clung to trunks or hopped busily along the ground.

Two tables away, Cam was asking her old friend if she was dating anyone. On Brennan's other side, a man was microwaving a mini pizza, and it filled the air with the smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese.

Brennan reached into her bag and took out the book she had been meaning to start. The cover read, _Stiff: the curious lives of human cadavers,_ by Mary Roach. Although it was geared more toward the layperson than the things Brennan usually read, a colleague had recommended it, saying that the author had a good reputation, both for her science and her (often humorous) perspectives.

Brennan supposed this was not the best topic to be reading today, in the middle of handling the chaos and carnage of a plane crash…but she would give it a try. She had already skimmed the beginning, and remembered that the author went on to describe the distancing and compartmentalization needed to perform such tasks.

The introduction made Brennan pause. The author was talking about people donating their bodies to science, and the odd case of one woman who, after her husband's death, asked to observe the dissection. (The head of the department had gently turned her down.) The writer then made this observation:

_I would not want to watch an experiment, no matter how interesting or important, that involved the remains of someone I knew and loved. …I feel this way…because I could not, emotionally, separate that cadaver from the person it recently was. One's own dead are more than cadavers, they are place holders for the living. They are a focus, a receptacle, for emotions that no longer have one. The dead of science are always strangers. _

Brennan could appreciate this description: bodies as place holders or receptacles. Relatives put such stock in the material remains of loved ones, although the person they had known was gone. This was one reason why cultures conducted funeral rituals: they were for the living, not the dead. It was also why Brennan was doing this job today, to assign names to faces, and return the remains to families, for burial.

It might be useful to borrow this writer's words, for future situations. To counter people like Booth, the next time he mentioned heaven or god. Or simply as added knowledge--a way to talk about a decedent, who was no longer a sentient person, but was still a focus for emotions. But, Brennan realized, it would be prudent to run the idea by Booth before she made use of it. "Receptacle" was a rational and appropriate word, but was it a sensitive one?

The author's next section turned Brennan's thoughts to a more personal topic.

_Let me tell you about my first cadaver. I was thirty-six, and it was eighty-one. It was my mother's. I notice here that I have used the possessive "my mother's," as if to say the cadaver that belonged to my mother, not the cadaver that _was _my mother. My mom was never a cadaver; no person ever is. You are a person and then you cease to be a person, and a cadaver takes your place. My mother was gone. The cadaver was her hull. _

Again, Brennan agreed with this matter-of-fact judgment. She had to think of her own mother--an exception to the writer's earlier decree, _the dead of science are strangers_. They had discovered her mother's bones residing in Limbo, the lab's modular storage.

Brennan had held her mother's skull. It had been…creepy. That was a word Booth or Angela would use, but she would admit it was true.

It had also been wrenching, in a way she didn't fully understand. Knowing that these were her mother's bones…encoded with her DNA… They had been an inextricable part of the woman who had given birth to her, and loved her.

Even if the flesh was gone, Brennan could gaze at the skull, and see her mother's face. The line of the brow, the zygomatic arch. Of course, the teeth were the same; she could see her mother's smile. Brennan had inherited that shape of the incisors.

A blare of laughter from the TV in the corner brought her back to the present. A lab-coated man had turned on an old black-and-white sitcom.

Brennan took another bite of her lunch, and looked back at the page of the book next to her. The author did talk about grief, in that section; she described the emotions at seeing her mother's body in the casket. But she did so with understatement. This story formed one piece of a commonsense essay, and Brennan found something appealing about it. The objectivity, perhaps. The author had accepted very difficult emotions, and had crafted them into something constructive. They were only one piece of the whole. She had surrounded them with rational discourse; they were contained and purposeful.

Brennan thought unexpectedly of Miranda Charles' bones. When she had last seen them, it was to return them to a pristine plastic drawer, where they awaited transport to a funeral home. Perhaps Mary Roach's observations helped explain Brennan's own preoccupation with this victim's remains: her emotions had no receptacle. The anger toward the suspects--that could be diverted into pummeling a bag at karate class, or shooting holes in targets at the firing range. But the sorrow and bitterness were not so easy. Perhaps she had projected those feelings onto the girl's remains, hoping for…something. More clues, more answers, some kind of resolution.

This unsettled mood was also why she had called Miranda's parents last week, after discussing it with Sweets. Mindful of his advice, Brennan had chosen her words very carefully. She was calling from personal concern, she had explained. She could no longer actively investigate the case, because she and her partner, in confronting the men who'd murdered their daughter, had been held captive for several hours. And, Brennan had said, I wondered if you would be willing to meet with me. I know this can be difficult to talk about, but I can provide general updates about the FBI's current investigation. And…I would like to know more about Miranda, as a person. I can read a lot of things from bones, but there are many other things I can't. I would like to know more.

Brennan closed the book, put away her lunch, and took her phone from her bag. Miranda's mother had said they would be out of town this weekend, but that she would reply today. Amid the turmoil of the plane crash, Brennan had forgotten to check for messages. In fact, there was one. Miranda's mother arranged to meet with her the next day, at the diner.

**

**Official citations for this section: **(I've been referring to Netter's atlas all along and figured I should mention it now. It's Netter's _light_, mind you, not the much fatter one used in anatomy courses.)

Martini, Frederic H., and Michael J. Timmons. _Human Anatomy_. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 1995.

Netter, Frank H. _Netter's Atlas of the Human Body_. Hauppage: Barron's, 2006.

Roach, Mary. _Stiff: the curious lives of human cadavers_. New York: Norton, 2003.

**End note: **Reviews: Like them. Need them, for added motivation. And remember, I was an English major, so I'm looking for specific textual analysis! ;)

Special thanks to bearlee-there. Best. Reviewer. Ever.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Background information for this section comes from the FBI's official website. I had to surf around there to answer the question, "What the hell is Booth going to do all day, if not solve cases with Brennan?" If you're interested, check out the comprehensive list of crimes they investigate, or click further on each crime category for a description.

**Part 15**

Booth felt better, to some extent, about facing the FBI building that Monday. On arrival in his office, he discovered that Cullen had put him on one of the new cases they were starting to investigate: moving company fraud.

Booth walked down the hall to the appropriate meeting room, for the briefing that would summarize the problem and assign tasks to different people. Cullen and the agent in charge, Munroe, sat at the head of the conference table.

"You probably know how this works," Monroe was saying. "People moving to a new location look for companies that offer low estimates for their trunk rental service. They pick one that looks good, only to find that the movers jack up the price once their possessions are loaded onto the truck."

"Our guys caught a bunch of these scammers in Florida," Cullen said. "Resulted in seventy-four indictments, including mail fraud and conspiracy. But now we've got some of these wise guys in our area. So--we'll use a combination of strategies to get them."

Cullen went on to list the tactics, which might later involve undercover agents posing as customers. He then handed out assignments, with packets of background information and preliminary leads.

Booth was not slated to go undercover, but he would help search for too-good-to-be-true moving ads, and track down both the victims and the swindlers.

So, he thought, heading back to his office, I'm not back to solving murders with Bones, but at least this is better than background checks.

Booth sat down at his desk and looked over the short list of names Cullen had given him, of people who had reported scams. After talking with a couple of them on the phone, he found that the crooks had refused to move their belongings unless they paid the new, higher cost, in cash. "They held our furniture hostage!" one man wailed. "They drove off with it, and wouldn't even tell us where. We found out later they'd taken it to some dirty old warehouse." According to the background information, other people's valuables had been stolen, or the items sold at auction, or some simply abandoned.

Booth, shaking his head at the ever-inventive transgressions of the white-collar criminal, turned to his computer to tackle the next batch of leads.

**

Near the end of the day, he set aside some time for his private investigation of the Anders case. He decided to look through databases for the knife Rawling had carried, which Brennan had described to Angela. This piece of evidence was considered incidental, and Booth was unlikely to get in trouble for it.

As he clicked through images of functional or ornate blades, a thought occurred to him that he could not push away. _What if we never catch these guys? _It had been a month already. It would be easy for months to stretch toward a year, and then two years. The trail would grow cold.

And even now, Rawling and his lascivious boss could be casting their eyes over another woman like Miranda Charles. Like Temperance Brennan.

No. Booth clenched his hand over the computer mouse until its plastic cover creaked. They _would_ catch them. There were still many leads to explore. Some trace had to surface, he told himself. No one was that good at hiding.

Meanwhile, he would try to find the knife. He still thought it looked like military issue, although no matches had turned up so far.

Admittedly, this was not the best thing he could focus on right now. He recalled Rawling's blunt features, those dull eyes under heavy brows. Had he merely shown the knife to Brennan, behind the locked door, or had he threatened in earnest? Had he stepped in close and placed its sharp edge against her skin?

Booth pressed his palms into his eyes.

Brennan was okay. He'd been reassured of that, in her apartment. She did not appear to be suffering from post-traumatic stress. She did not wake up screaming from nightmares.

He was sure there were still ugly or frightening places inside her head, like there were in his. But she had said they would both be all right, and he trusted her.

Booth took a break from the weapons database. He stood up, stretched, and went to stare out the window at the street below. Traffic alternately sped and halted. Rows of trees waved in the wind. Pedestrians hurried along.

Brennan was so damn brave, after what those bastards had done. And that weekend, she had comforted him. Just like Angela had said: Brennan wasn't going to suffer a nervous breakdown. No--but Booth had. He had been the damsel in distress, and his partner had rescued him.

Those events in the suite… He and Bones had both experienced worse in their lives, hadn't they? In a sense, they had been lucky. No one had been tortured or shot. Nothing overtly violent had happened--at least not to him. But it had still been harrowing, in an insidious way. It had not been a clear-cut situation demanding a clear-cut response. And that made it more frustrating.

Booth glanced at the clock. He could be out of here pretty soon, and he wouldn't mind a round with one of those young hot shots at the gym.

Since talking with Brennan, the worst of his dread and guilt were gone--the sick feeling that had centered in his lungs and gut. But he was still angry.

He turned from the window and stared idly at the items on his shelf: the model rocket, the globe with its oceans and continents. He reached out to spin the sphere on its axis, then ran his finger over the miniature relief of the mountain ranges. Mountains that were formed (as Parker was learning in science) by plates sliding and colliding, over a bed of lava.

This core of rage inside him…Booth had more of a handle on it now. It was less likely to erupt unexpectedly, like magma from a volcano. He could channel it into driven purpose. He would continue investigating; he would keep after Fleming for progress reports, and pursue venues the FBI was not exploring.

He could even use that animosity to fuel his efforts in this moving scam. No, it wasn't a vital case, but he would track down the guilty parties. Put more scumbags behind bars, to teach them a lesson. That they can't get away with hurting people for their own benefit. Can't get away with catching people off guard and disrupting their lives. Making them vulnerable by holding them--or at least their furniture--hostage.

**

Just as Booth was getting ready to leave, Fleming knocked on his open door. The man looked like he'd been way spending too much time in front of a computer, rather than out in some fresh air.

He told Booth he was still checking to see if anyone recognized the hallway security man Anders had employed. "I must've made two dozen phone calls from that list," he said, "but I finally found something. There's a retired military guy who says he knows him. And it looks like their unit used that diving hawk emblem your artist friend put together. The guy lives near an army base in Maryland. He couldn't talk today, but said we could set up a time later this week to go interview him."

Booth felt cautious. There wasn't enough information at this point. But at least he would get to go along and find out more.

**

After lunch, Brennan returned to her remains. She stood over the table of tissue and bone, partially sorted into anatomical regions. Some of the fleshier parts still oozed seawater, mixing with blood to form a pinkish puddle on the examining table.

The last set of remains she'd studied had also been waterlogged: those of Miranda Charles. Brennan had knelt among the rushes on the muddy riverbank, and peeled back the tattered layers of fabric and flesh, to peer at the bones beneath.

She had not known, then, what it would lead to. She would never believe in fate, because life was full of decisions and chance occurrences, and changing any one variable could lead to a different outcome. But, with the discovery of the young woman's body, she and Booth had set foot on that investigative path. To Miranda's parents, notifying them of her death. To the clues about Anders, who had hired her as an assistant. To the remote inn, and meeting two criminals in a suite of rooms.

No, she told herself. Don't think about that now. She was doing a poor job compartmentalizing. Her eyes focused back on the jumble of human remains to identify. There was a task at hand, a puzzle to put together. She had to organize the puzzle.

**

She drove Camille back to the lab at the end of the day. They talked a little about the progress they had made in identifying passengers, but Brennan mostly watched the road. As they neared the Jeffersonian, Cam stretched in her seat. "I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm ready for a steaming hot shower, and then a nice trashy novel before going to bed. Or maybe swing by the gym first--say, thirty minutes on the Stairmaster--while getting to look at some healthy, live, intact bodies for a change."

Brennan nodded her agreement.

"And," Cam went on, "there's always some cable series to watch, where beautiful people are making out in ever-rotating pairs." She gave a sidelong smile. "I hear you actually have a TV now. It might be worth a look." Then the smile vanished as quickly as it had formed. Cam changed the subject, probably wondering if it was insensitive to recommend racy television programs.

Brennan noted that her colleague was talking a lot; overcompensating, as she sometimes did, when anxious or unsettled. Cam clearly wanted to distract herself from the plane crash. The fact that it had been an accident, rather than violent crime, was meager comfort. Working with bodies all day, it was hard not to keep seeing them after you went home.

When Brennan took a shower later that night, she had to soap her hair twice to wash away the smells of chemicals and death.

**

Her phone rang as she was about to exit the bathroom. She went to answer it in the kitchen, with still-dripping hair. "Hey Bones," Booth said. "I just wanted to see how your day at Quantico went."

She didn't jump in with a response, which he should have expected. "And I wanted to tell you," he added, "there's very preliminary news about the hallway security man we've been trying to find."

"Yes?"

Booth summarized what Fleming had told him earlier. "So," he concluded, "maybe our trip back to the inn won't have been totally pointless after all."

Brennan remembered that she had wanted to ask him something. "Did Sweets leave you a message today, too?"

"Yeah," Booth groaned. "What was it? He wants to see where things stand with us? And did we have a chance to talk yet, and he claims to be sorry he caused us distress or threatened to break up our partnership."

"Because he believed extreme measures were warranted," Brennan finished. "I can't make it to our usual session tomorrow anyway; I have to keep working on identifying the victims."

"All right, we'll put him off." Booth sounded cheerful at the prospect. "We'll reschedule. Maybe just meet him at the diner sometime." There was a pause, and his voice changed. "So, Bones… Was it…bad? The plane crash victims?"

She did not ask him to clarify his vague choice of words. "Yes. But it was a relatively small plane, so the number of fragmented remains is not too overwhelming. In another day or two, we should have most everything identified."

"And did you say you might be meeting with the Charles family this week?" Booth wanted to know.

Brennan told him of her planned visit with Miranda's mother.

"I could come along," he said, "if you want."

"I can do it myself, Booth." She sounded offended. "I'll be careful. I won't say something horrible."

"No, Bones, I know you won't. I just meant… It's a hard thing to do. Maybe you wanted some moral support."

"No," she said. "I don't know why, exactly… but I think it's something I have to do alone."

**

**A/N:** Sorry about the small cliffhanger. The next section is not quite ready, but should be soon.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **I hate to pin my story down to a particular timeframe, but it makes the most sense that it occurs after Brennan has met with her father and brother, yet before they're actually back in her life (whether in or out of jail). I enjoy the eps about her family, but including them here would add too much unnecessary complication to the story. I mean, the thing is long enough already, right? Besides, if Max found out what those guys did to his daughter, he would have tracked them down and killed them by now. And then where would we be?

**Part 16**

Brennan was able to leave Quantico early enough the next afternoon to arrive at the scheduled coffee date. She chose Booth's usual table by the window, and did not have long to wait before a middle-aged, brown-haired woman appeared.

"Dr. Brennan?"

"Temperance," she corrected.

Miranda's mother sat down across from her, setting her purse on the table. "Call me Liana."

She looked much the same as the last time Brennan had seen her. Hazel eyes like her daughter's, in the photo she had shown them. Shoulder-length brown hair, touched with gray around her face. Today she wore a purple sash as a headband, and a long floaty skirt. Brennan thought that Angela might call her an aging hippie.

Both women regarded the menus in front of them. "My partner often gets pie here," Brennan said. "I'm sure he would recommend it."

Liana glanced at the dessert listing. "Mm, blueberry and raspberry. No, better not. It's the sweet things that get me in trouble."

They decided they only wanted tea, and embarked on a brief discussion about the different flavors, and the merits of white, green or black tea.

As Brennan stirred her chosen blend, she said, "I wanted to let you know what the FBI is doing, since my partner and I can no longer be an official part of the investigation."

Liana nodded, looking guarded, but curious.

Brennan summarized the major avenues of inquiry, as well as Booth's individual efforts. She was honest about the lack of promising results thus far, but was also clear in the determination she and Booth shared, to see justice served.

"I'll tell my husband what you've said." Liana wrapped the string of her tea bag around her spoon before setting it down. "He's at work right now. That's his excuse, because I don't think he'd like this sort of…" She shrugged. "Talking over cups of tea, about emotionally-laden topics? Marc's a typical guy. He doesn't go for that sort of thing."

"My partner is a typical guy," Brennan said. "At least, about some things." He was not typical, she knew, in being the more perceptive and intuitive of the pair.

They were quiet for a few moments. When Liana turned from looking out the window, she asked, "You say the two of you were held captive?"

Brennan nodded.

"I admit, I wasn't fully paying attention when you mentioned it the first time. But…you're both all right?"

"We sustained only minor injuries." Brennan told her a brief, sanitized version of the events. She guessed, by the older woman's face, it was obvious how much she was leaving out.

And Liana referenced it. "Do I want to know more?" There was a cynical humor on her face, and something else. If Brennan had to identify it, she would call it sympathy. A recognition of pain--her daughter's, and Brennan's, and her own.

"No," she answered. "Probably not."

Neither seemed to have much more to say, yet neither was in a hurry to leave.

Then Liana dug through her purse. "Can I show you another picture of Miranda? It's one of my favorites."

"Of course." Brennan took the proffered photo. A grinning girl sat on a tree branch, her face dappled with leaf shadows.

"She was only six or seven," Liana said. "Had to ask her father to lift her up to the first branch. But then she'd climb to the very top of that tree, that was as tall as our house. I couldn't look!"

"She looks very strong," Brennan said. "And fearless." When she gave the picture back, Liana had tears in her eyes.

"I wish I had more family pictures of my own," Brennan heard herself saying.

Liana had taken a crumpled Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her nose. "Why's that?"

"Well…my parents disappeared when I was fifteen."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was going to ask about them--if you don't mind--because you have a rather unusual name. Temperance. Did they choose it as a sort of message?" Liana seemed glad to shift the focus from her own family tragedies.

"Actually," Brennan realized, "I suppose they did. My brother tells me that originally, my name was Joy."

"That's quite a change."

"Yes." Brennan glanced outside at several passerby, walking quickly into a chill wind. "My parents…lived rather recklessly. They had to change our identities when I was only four."

"Like a witness protection program?"

"Something like that." Brennan sipped her tea and replaced the cup in the saucer. "But you're right, it was a rather dramatic change, Joy to Temperance. I suppose… I see it as tangible evidence of their attitude shift. From a more carefree, irresponsible outlook, to one that forced them to face the consequences of their actions."

Brennan stared into the dark liquid in her mug. She had not expected to talk about this. True, she had not known exactly why she had come here today. Ostensibly to inform Liana about the investigation, or to learn a little more about the girl who had died. But Brennan also knew that she could not expect people to reveal personal things, unless she also offered something of herself. Booth and Angela had told her as much.

Liana was holding her teacup wrapped in both hands. "Do you know what happened to them?"

Brennan nodded. "We found out recently… My brother and I didn't speak for many years, but he was living nearby. We found out that my mother had died, not long after they disappeared."

"You were very young when you lost her." Liana's voice was gentle, and Brennan's throat suddenly tightened. I lost my mother, she thought, and Liana lost her daughter. But we can't fill those roles for each other.

"Your father?" the older woman prompted.

"He's alive," Brennan said stiffly. "I don't know where he is." Then she added, "We think he killed a man who was threatening me and Russ. My brother."

Liana looked a little shocked, but also impressed--even envious. "I wish your father had been there when my Randi was threatened," she said bitterly. "Or I wish I could have foreseen it like he did. Maybe I could have done the same, to protect my girl."

"I wish we could have too," Brennan said in a rough voice. "My partner and I…we wish we could have been on the trail soon enough to save her."

Liana nodded. The corners of her eyes were drawn down with grief, but Brennan recognized anger burning beneath the surface. It was the same spectrum she and Booth had felt. The same anguish and helpless rage of any family--like her own--whose relatives had disappeared or been killed.

"I wondered," Brennan said softly, "could you tell me more about your daughter? If you wouldn't mind?"

"I want to talk about her to people." Liana's mouth had a stubborn set. "I don't want to pretend this didn't happen, or that nothing's wrong. She was such a part of our lives for twenty-three years. Our daughter. We're not just going to shut that out."

Brennan studied the other woman, as she began to talk about Miranda's piano music, her friends, her running routes.

She is very brave, Brennan thought. Like Angela or Booth--she does not close off emotion. Even knowing those connections will cause her pain, she risks it. She does not back away.

**

The next morning, Booth got into Fleming's car for the drive to Maryland. The retired colonel, William Lowe, lived in a ranch-style house just outside the army base.

He turned out to be one of the more jovial military guys Booth had met, with a short white beard and ruddy skin. He welcomed them into the living room, which was decorated with army badges in glass cases, and deer antlers mounted on the wall.

"My wife's at her book club today," he said. "Can I get you some soda? Or beer?"

"Thanks," Booth said, "but not while we're on duty."

They exchanged pleasantries for a while, and Booth briefly described his own military background. The two men listened politely as Lowe talked about his grown children, pointing out several family photographs on the wall.

Then they got down to business. The agents took seats on the couch, with Lowe in a chair to one side. "So you say the guy's name is John Kaczmarek?" Fleming asked.

Lowe looked again at the image printed from the hotel surveillance tape, that Booth had handed him.

"Yeah, that's Kaz. He was in my unit, about six years ago now."

Fleming and Booth gave each other a quick glance to acknowledge their success. Later they would confirm, by re-checking database photos, to compare against the hotel's footage. But they had identified one more piece of the puzzle.

Lowe was shaking his head. "I wouldn't be happy to hear he got in with the criminal crowd, but I couldn't say I'd be totally surprised." He put the photo back on the coffee table.

"Why's that, sir?"

Lowe met Booth's eyes, all traces of cheerfulness gone. "You know how it is," he said gravely. "Sometimes the best soldiers have this…dark side. That's what lets you do what it takes."

Booth nodded his understanding.

"I liked Kaz, a lot. Sort of felt like my own son. But there were a couple things about him that could make you nervous." Lowe looked out of his front window, where sunlight glinted off the windshield of Fleming's car. "You follow orders," he said. "No matter what. They say it's for the greater good, but sometimes, you have to wonder." He looked back to Booth. "This guy? I don't think he wondered."

Fleming cleared his throat. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Well…" Lowe thought about it. "It had to have been three years ago, when I had just retired. Or, I didn't actually see him, but I talked to him. Wrote a job reference for him, actually."

"What do you remember about that job?" Booth asked.

"It was for… security guard, I think. Hold on, I might still have a copy of the form," Lowe said, standing up. "Come to my office."

The men followed him into the next room, which was very cluttered. Binders and folders crammed some shelves, and model jets perched on others. The guy's a pack rat, Booth thought.

Lowe puttered around the room, squinting at different binders. The first thing he pulled out was a photo album, and he flipped through many of its glossy pages before finding the picture he wanted to show them. "Here's our unit," he said, tilting the album. Booth glanced at the soldiers in neat rows, sporting identical crew cuts, and managed to pick out Kaczmarek. Next to the photo, encased in a clear plastic sleeve, was the diving hawk emblem, the kind that could be sewn onto a jacket. Angela would be glad that one of her reconstructions was on the mark.

It took several more minutes of rummaging before Lowe finally located what he was looking for. He handed them a sheet of paper, a reference form for a job application.

One name jumped off the page: Booth recognized it as one of Anders' pseudonyms. This must be the very form Anders had used when he hired Kaczmarek as a security guard. At the top, Kaczmarek had filled in his address and phone number, and even though it was unlikely that information would still be current, it gave Booth another lead to pursue.

Even better, Anders' business address was listed in one corner. It included an office suite number, not too far away, in Virginia.

This colonel might be a pack rat, Booth thought, but that is very lucky for us.

He pointed out the address to Fleming, who gave him a meaningful nod. Even if there was no way they would find Anders there, it opened up new avenues of inquiry, and new ways to track him down.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** I couldn't decide if I should serve this chapter in larger or smaller bites. Let's go with smaller for now. Whets the appetite for later, right?

**Part 17**

Sweets was just starting to feel ticked off at Booth and Brennan for not responding to his message, when he found one on his machine. Booth sounded terse, yet conciliatory. "We have to skip our usual session this week. We're both out of town. Bones is over at Quantico, and I have some investigating to do. But we're taking you to lunch at the diner on Thursday. High noon. Don't be late." The voicemail clicked off. Taking me to lunch, Sweets thought, is a good sign. But why did he feel like he had been challenged to an Old West shootout?

**

Brennan and Booth met at the diner early, so they would have time to talk before Sweets arrived. Once Booth had filled her in about the recent breakthroughs, he said, "Fleming and I can head to that office in Virginia as soon as we get the green light from Cullen. I'd guess tomorrow and Saturday--it's probably a two day trip, to get there and back, and to investigate everything." Booth took a sip of coffee, then put his cup down, turning it in absentminded circles.

"We already talked to people at these business suites," he went on, "and they think they have some records from when Anders rented it. Plus there are people there who remember him."

"This was how long ago?" Brennan asked.

"Kaczmarek's job reference was dated three years ago. So this office was probably the place where Anders based his illegal activities, right before coming to the D.C. area. And that, we know, was about eighteen months ago, when he hired Miranda Charles as an assistant."

Brennan had been listening carefully. She thought Booth looked more energized than he had for a while. His only disappointment was about his son. "If we're still gone Saturday, then I only get Sunday with Parker. But," he mused, "maybe I can work something out with Rebecca."

"I know you don't like to put your job before your child," Brennan said, "if you can help it."

"No, I don't. But, Bones…" His eyes took on a familiar turmoil. "This is different. I have to do this."

**

As they waited for Sweets, toying with their coffee mugs, Brennan tried to identify the strange feeling that had come over her, after Booth's news about the case. Why hadn't he even mentioned the possibility of her coming along on this investigation? She knew there was no rational reason for her to go…but they were partners. They had gone back to the hotel together, and there hadn't been a good reason for either of them to do that.

She wouldn't mind getting out of the lab. True, she also didn't mind the break from investigating murders, because those were so often disturbing and emotionally draining. But now Booth got to go on field trips again. He had renewed purpose, while she…had bone fragments. She had the accident victims at Quantico. Although she claimed not to see the gore anymore, working with it for long hours each day was not her idea of a good time.

**

When Sweets got there, he knew right away that Booth was much improved. He quizzed the partners about their weekend talk, and although he didn't get much in the way of responses, he was satisfied that they had said what needed to be said.

It was clear that Booth had benefited not just from the discussion with Brennan, but also from the new leads he had just discovered. "Even though I'm only going with Fleming as an _observer_," Booth told them, "at least I get to go. And Fleming's not a hard-ass about rules; he lets me do my share of the questioning. So my hands won't be tied, even if I'm not _technically _participating in the investigation."

Booth's eyes flicked toward Brennan, who had heard his unintended reference to their time in the suite: _My hands won't be tied. _

Sweets watched the pair with his usual attentiveness. He registered Booth's slip, and the fact that they both ignored it. Brennan seemed subdued, but this was not unusual, especially if they were talking about tracking down the two criminals.

After they had all ordered from the lunch menu, Sweets raised the topic that was most important to them. "I am satisfied," he said, "that the two of you can resume working together as you usually do. I'll make my recommendation to Cullen, and in the next few weeks, you can get back to solving murders in your collaborative style."

Booth was watching him suspiciously, sure there had to be some catch. He wasn't wrong.

"However," Sweets said, "you both had your confidence seriously shaken by the events you experienced. And you're both aware how stressful it can be to work murder cases. So, instead of throwing you straight into the deep end, I would suggest something else, as a sort of stepping stone, to ease you back into working difficult cases together."

The partners waited.

"In-service training at Quantico," Sweets said.

Booth groaned.

"Wait," Brennan said, "let's hear him out."

"You know they offer a wide variety of courses to help agents keep their skills current," Sweets elaborated. "Between the three of us, and Director Cullen, we can decide which combination would be most beneficial to you. For instance, the risk-assessment seminars, or the practical application components." He noted Booth's dour expression. "It never hurts to go back to the underlying theory," Sweets argued. "Besides, after what you experienced, it is very possible that you would overcompensate in the next crisis situation. Being either too bold or too cautious can have disastrous consequences."

Booth was still giving him a dirty look, but Brennan was nodding.

"Just think of this training," Sweets finished, "as a precaution, a refresher for what you already know."

"I think," Brennan said, "that would be a logical course of action."

"All right," Booth sighed. "I won't try to fight both of you." He looked at Bones. "I'll go if you go."

Their meals arrived, and everyone was silent for a few minutes, eating.

Sweets dunked some fries in ketchup and popped them in his mouth. "Do you think you'll try the Firearms Automated Training System while you're at Quantico? It is so cool."

Brennan glanced at Booth. "Is that the one you said is like a video game?"

"Yeah," he explained, "you're in a room with this big screen, where different scenarios are playing out. You have this laser-type gun, and you have to shoot the bad guys who are armed, and not the hostages or innocent people." Then he looked at Sweets. "That gun is nothing like a real gun," he scoffed. "Besides, Bones and I have already been in real-life situations like that. We do fine."

"I still agree," Brennan said, "that it would be valuable practice."

She knew that Booth would do extremely well at this sort of activity, and it would help his ego and confidence. Usually, he never needed a boost in those areas, but right now, it couldn't hurt. The two of them could go to these seminars or practical exercises. It would get her out of the lab. And Booth would receive confirmation that he was very smart in certain areas. He would be reassured that, all things considered, he made excellent choices in his work and his life.

**

As they finished eating, Sweets asked Brennan about her meeting with Liana Charles. Booth felt instant guilt: with the excitement of the new leads, he had forgotten. Although he wanted to hear what Bones would say, he protested, "Sweets! I should have stipulated--no therapy. This is strictly a business lunch."

Sweets ignored him, looking expectantly at Brennan.

"It was fine," she said. "It was…emotional. But I don't think either of us regretted the meeting. She…showed me a picture of her daughter as a child."

The men exchanged a glance. They knew that, for Brennan, this was a relatively revealing answer. And, because it took her ten times longer to process subjective experiences than it did for objective information, it was best not to push her.

**

Sweets left the diner feeling rather pleased with himself. What the partners did not know was that the FBI training was not the key ingredient here. It was Brennan and Booth spending time together. They would have balked if he had simply told them to do so--as if he were sending them on some sort of romantic rendezvous (and they claimed he was the juvenile one!).

Their tolerance for him was especially low after last week, when he _had _demanded that they meet and talk things out. But they would benefit from getting used to each other again, being comfortable with each other; and the FBI in-service offered the perfect framework. They could attend a number of seminars. Booth could mutter complaints or mocking comments, and Brennan could counter with rational arguments. Things would feel back to normal.

**

**A/N: **If anyone agrees with Sweets, that the Quantico "video game" would be pretty cool, have patience. Our protagonists have a lot more interesting things they have to do before that.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N**: Once again, quoted passages remain the property of their ingenious creators. Please see the end notes for sources.

**Part 18**

On Friday, Brennan returned to the Quantico lab, where she and Cam were spending their final session identifying human remains from the plane crash. It had taken a little longer than expected, in part because Brennan kept leaving early for meetings at the diner.

Once the pathologists had dealt with the tissue, they let Brennan clean the remaining bone fragments. She was committed to identifying all the pieces.

But despite her efforts, she could not categorize several items, including bits of phalanges, ribs, and a small section from the ramus of a mandible. There were only three people these remains could belong to (those passengers who had been nearest the explosion), two men and a woman. Based on the size of the bones, Brennan was reasonably sure they belonged to a man. But which one? It should have been easy, since one passenger had been in his early thirties, while the other had been sixty. But the fragments were small, in the middle of the complete bone, rather than from a diagnostic portion near the joint. While Brennan could discern no arthritic lipping or other age markers, that did not mean for certain that the fragments came from the younger man.

DNA tests could be conducted, but it was a time-consuming process, and it would mean she would have to surrender the remains to someone else.

Around midday, Brennan looked up from her exam table to find Dr. Saroyan standing next to her. "You know," Cam said, "it's not necessary to identify each and every fragment. We have the information we need, and the remains will be properly returned to their families."

It took Brennan a moment to come back from her state of concentration.

"What would you suggest instead?" she asked. "Dispose of the extra bone fragments? Or simply guess, and put these phalanges in with _someone's _remains, even if it might be the wrong person?"

Cam opened her mouth, but no words came. She looked down at the table of small bones. "All right," she said. "I understand." She rested a hand on Brennan's arm before she moved away.

Brennan picked up several fragments in her gloved hands, and headed to the other end of the lab where the microscopes were. She would use the Kerley method to verify the age of these bones.

However, it meant destroying a portion of the already damaged pieces. Which is worse? she asked herself. Pieces, or smaller pieces? Knowing the identity, or not knowing?

Always knowing. That was why she did this job. She was thorough, and she got her answers.

That morning, she had received a message from Booth: _We're off to VA. Will call with any news_. It made her more determined than ever to use her skills here, where they were needed.

Brennan shaved a thin slice of bone from the first fragment and placed it under the microscope. She turned the focus knob until she could clearly see the osteons, the tiny passageways that had once carried blood through the living bone. She then began her survey of the osteon rings, rather like counting the rings in a tree trunk. Comparing the number of rings and broken osteons to the number of whole osteons could, with input from a mathematical formula, tell her whether this fragment had belonged to the thirty- or the sixty-year-old man.

When Brennan looked up from her microscope, she found the lab nearly deserted. Everyone had gone to lunch. She stood up and stretched, then made sure her work station was neat before she peeled off her gloves.

As she left the lab and walked down a long corridor, she thought, I am not being rational about this. Just the other day, I was wondering why people feel so strongly about the remains of their loved ones--people who have died, and are now only hulls or receptacles. Why, then, am I insisting on keeping all those pieces together?

And was I rude to Cam earlier? Or was she worried that my powers of logic are being diluted? Perhaps that was why she touched my arm.

Camille was not in the staff room, so Brennan could not ask her about it, if she had wanted to. She took her lunch from the refrigerator and sat at her table facing the window.

It's the principle of it, she decided. It's what I do: identify people who cannot otherwise be identified. It's what Booth and I do. We can't rest until all the pieces, literal or metaphorical, fit together.

**

While she ate lunch, she thought back on her discussion with Liana Charles. The two of them should never have met. Yet they had this connection. Brennan had found herself stumbling through the story of her mother's death, feeling small and vulnerable, but oddly warmed by Liana's gentleness. She had even wished, for one irrational, powerful moment, that this woman was her mother.

Brennan glanced outside to see two squirrels chasing one another around the tree. One hung upside-down on the bark, eyeing the other sitting on the ground.

She watched them for a while, then opened her bag and took out the photocopied page Liana had given her. Near the end of their meeting, she had pulled a paperback book from her purse.

"I've been skulking around the self-help section lately," Liana had confessed. "I don't know what I really get out of these books, but I did find a poem in here I wanted to save." She removed a folded sheet from between the book's pages. "And--I want to give it to you now. It's not exactly a pleasant poem, but…it satisfies something in me."

Brennan had taken the page Liana offered.

"I don't know what you believe about god," the older woman had said, "if anything. But take this home with you and read it. It helps me feel sort of… vindicated. I do still pray, despite everything. And I would like to believe that some formidable female deity would hear me."

Brennan spread the page flat on the table next to her, and read.

"_Prayer to the Mothers" --Diane Di Prima_

_they say you lurk here still, perhaps_

_in the depths of the earth or on_

_some sacred mountain, they say_

_you walk (still) among men, writing signs_

_in the air, in the sand, warning warning weaving_

_the crooked shape of our deliverance, anxious_

_not hasty. Careful. You step among cups, step out of_

_crystal, heal with the holy glow of your _

_dark eyes, they say you unveil_

_a green face in the jungle, wear blue_

_in the snows, attend on _

_births, dance on our dead, croon, fuck, embrace_

_our weariness, you lurk here still, mutter_

_in caves, warn, warn and weave_

_warp of our hope, link hands against_

_the evil in the stars, o rain_

_poison upon us, acid which eats clean_

_wake us like children from a nightmare, give the slip_

_to the devourers whom I cannot name_

_the metal men who walk_

_on all our substance, crushing flesh_

_to swamp_

Brennan took a deep breath and looked out of the window again. She had never thought much of poetry, unless, perhaps, it adhered to a set format, like a sonnet. There was too much room for interpretation. But this one…she did not need help understanding the core of it.

Anthropologically, of course, the poem referred to supernatural beings from a variety of cultures; going back to Classical mythology, with references to the three Fates, weaving the threads of people's lives. Or Celtic deities: different facets of the mother goddess who was both creator and destroyer; patron of the harvest and of fertility, as well as death and war.

Brennan looked back at the last lines, and they did not strike her intellectually. They came as an emotional punch. She knew instantly that Anders and Rawling were "metal men." Anyone who committed serious crimes--rape or murder, holding hostages, dumping bodies in rivers--they were "crushing flesh to swamp." Perhaps, Brennan amended, they only hurried the inevitable and natural process of decomposition…but they did so through violence.

And anyone who had been touched by violence felt it like the "poison" of acid rain. It made Brennan think of her earlier, grisly fantasy, of sealing herself in the lab's boiling chamber. To sear away the taint on her skin. It would be, she realized, "acid which eats clean."

Brennan had forgotten the lunch she was supposed to be eating. She thought of Liana's words at the diner: "I don't know if I still believe in god, after what happened. And the god I imagined was never your conventional church image. But I would like to think there are some vengeful female forces who could stop them, the men you ran into, the ones who did this to my daughter."

The idea was compelling, Brennan could agree. Retribution, or some kind of cosmic balance: that Rawling and Anders would get what was coming to them. If such a power did exist, Liana wanted her to rise up and smite the men who had committed these crimes. But supernatural beings could not be counted on for justice.

Brennan would have to do it instead. She and Booth together; with the FBI, through the painstaking process of investigation and legal protocol.

**

**Sources and A/N:**

--Libal, Angela. _Forensic Anthropology_. Philadelphia: Mason Crest, 2006.

This is where I learned about the Kerley method of analyzing osteons to determine age, if no other techniques will work. (I think they did use it on the show once.)

--Murdock, Maureen. _The Heroine's Journey_. Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1990.

This one's in the New Age/self-help section, and I can't bring myself to actually read stuff like that. I just caught sight of the book, flipped through, and kept a couple poems that were used to start off chapters. The Di Prima piece is found on p87.

It's more proof that I am incapable of writing fiction without referring to some other creative piece like music or poetry. (The joy and curse of being an English major. :) But we've all done it, right? B&B are so in your mind that you can't help but apply everything to them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 19**

On Friday, Booth and Fleming had driven out to the business suites Anders had rented. Their investigation turned up limited but promising results. The office staff had been accommodating, answering all their questions, and dredging up a few sheets of paper from dusty file cabinets, some of which listed contact information for people Anders had associated with.

His cover, here, was running a mail-order company. This had allowed him to meet with vendors, make plenty of phone calls, and have packages delivered--all, most likely, as part of his drug trafficking.

Now, on Saturday, Fleming had taken off to search for some of those contacts, while Booth was left cooling his heels in the lobby. Since only a few of the offices were open on a weekend, it was quiet and rather boring.

Booth sat on the sofa, tapping his feet. He looked out the window at some shrubbery that blocked an unattractive view of the road. Behind this lounge area was a small kitchen, and to his right, the main entrance, with a hallway leading to the stairs and other offices. The reception area, with the usual desk and file drawers, occupied the other end of the first floor.

Booth was waiting for a mysterious bike messenger, who everyone knew about, but no one knew _enough _about. "That's right," the employees had all said, "you might want to talk to Nate the bike messenger." No last name, no other info. No one could agree if he even worked Saturdays. But he came a couple times a week, they said, to pick up or drop off packages, and he had been friendly with Anders (who, of course, had gone by a different pseudonym here).

"Yeah, the two of them would sit in the lounge and have lunch sometimes," the receptionist had told Booth. Her name was Luisa, a Hispanic woman about twenty-five or thirty. She wasn't working Saturday, but she'd been quite helpful the day before.

And she'd confirmed something about Anders that Booth could have expected. "He gave me the creeps," she had said.

"That other guy, Rawling? He was weird too, but more just anti-social. Didn't seem very smart. I still don't know if they were supposed to be business partners, or what."

Booth had leaned against the reception desk, listening.

"But Anders…" she rolled her eyes. "He even asked me out, not long after he started working here. I was like, uh, sorry, I don't date white guys twenty years older than me, even if they do claim to be rich.

"So at least he didn't keep asking," Luisa said. "But…" She looked uncomfortable, and Booth asked her to continue. "Well, the thing was, he would _look _at me. Not that often, and not obvious enough to yell sexual harassment. I mean, if I caught him, he'd just smile like it was innocent. But it definitely gave me the creeps."

Booth had thanked her, privately noting that, yes, she was very pleasing to look at. Wavy hair. Nice lips. Not as nice as Bones, of course…

And not that it gave Anders any excuse, the bastard.

Booth got up from the couch and started wandering the lobby. It was getting to be lunchtime. If this bike messenger didn't show up soon, he probably wasn't coming today, and then how would they find him? They would have to come back, or else trust the employees to pass along his contact information. Booth was tempted to get the local cops on the guy's tail, to demand that he come in for questioning. All on the off chance that he knew something about Anders, based on infrequent, informal lunch conversations.

**

He had just about given up, and was about to call Fleming, to ask him when they should head back to D.C., when Nate the messenger appeared. He wheeled his bike inside and propped it against the wall. Booth smirked with satisfaction, and got up to introduce himself.

The two of them ended up on the couch, talking through mouthfuls of sandwiches.

"Anders was a cool guy," Nate was saying. "He was fine with my being in here for lunch, when a lot of other people wouldn't. I mean, a sweaty bike dude in their lounge, maybe mingling with upscale customers?"

Booth chuckled at the image. This kid was a few years older than Sweets, with tan legs (even in this cold weather) and shaggy blond hair.

"And he knew all kinds of random shit," Nate went on. "About the best places to visit in different cities, or about charter planes, or even ways to get around red tape in your health plan." He licked a drip of mustard from his hand, and took another huge bite of sandwich.

"Charter planes?" That made a blip on Booth's radar.

"Yeah," Nate chewed. "I was talking to him about wanting to get a pilot's license, you know, for Cessnas and small craft like that. But I hadn't found out exactly how you do that, or what the job front is like afterward. But it turned out, Anders knew some pilots personally. For business trips, he would fly with a charter service. So he was telling me more about turbo prop planes, and light business jets…"

Nate took a swallow of Gatorade. "He said he thought about learning to fly himself, but decided to stick to his current business." I bet, Booth thought. All the dirty money he was raking in.

He grilled Nate further, trying to eke out every detail from his memories of past conversations. When he pressed for more information about Anders' travel arrangements, Nate said, "I think I still have the business card he gave me--like, almost three years ago. It's for one of those private plane services that go all over the country, maybe to Mexico and Canada too."

Booth held his breath, while the kid shuffled through his wallet for the card.

"Yeah, I think I still have it. I've started studying for my pilot's license," he chattered, "but being kind of lazy about it, and didn't get around to calling--" he produced the card, "this number."

Booth took it, reading the brief ad copy about "private, luxurious business jets, for all your travel needs." He pocketed the card, but first had to let the kid copy down its information, because it was sort of the embodiment of his dream, and he didn't want to part with it.

Booth walked out of the office feeling like this had just become his lucky day. And that meant it was a very unlucky day for Anders.

**

**A/N: **I was debating a little about chapter order. We just had some internal action from Brennan's POV, and it was time to intersperse Booth's activities for Friday and Saturday. Next, back to Brennan.

And btw, I have a brother Nate who's a bike mechanic, so I decided to name a character after him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

Brennan had asked Angela to come with her on one of Miranda Charles' running routes. It was after she'd finally returned from Quantico, and the two women were sitting on her office couch, late in the day Friday.

"Sweetie…" Angela considered her response. "It would be an honor. But on one condition," she specified. "As long as we also do something less depressing this weekend. I know just the thing. It's artistic--that's all I'm saying."

"Ange," Brennan complained, "you know I'm not good at that."

"Come on, Bren. One time." Angela flopped back against the sofa cushions. "A little paint never hurt anyone. You've had a lot of worse stuff on your hands in this lab."

On Saturday, they took the Metro to within a few blocks of Angela's chosen venue: a paint-your-own-ceramics shop. She and Brennan surveyed the rows of plain white tableware, before Brennan chose a mug and Angela, a plate. A staff woman came to greet them and get them set up.

The place was quiet, except for two children and their parents in the other corner. "Kind of weird for a weekend," Angela observed, "but the craft fair's going on, so people are probably looking at professional stuff, rather than doing their own amateur work here." She and Brennan settled at a table and began looking over the collection of paint colors and brushes.

"If you want to come to the fair tomorrow," Angela said, "I'm probably going. If I can convince Hodgins to come along."

Brennan made a noncommittal response, holding a paintbrush at the ready. She took Angela's advice, in decorating her mug, to not think too much about the process. She started with a thin, undulating layer of brown at the bottom edge, then chose several shades of green. Before long, she realized it looked like layers of the earth seen in cross section, beginning with the bedrock and soil. Or--she turned the mug around, contemplating--perhaps rolling hills disappearing into the distance.

Meanwhile, Angela had painted a stunning blue butterfly in the center of her plate. "Its common name is the blue wave," she told Brennan. "I couldn't just _invent _some wing markings for my butterfly, not after listening to Jack go on about his insects all the time."

Brennan admired Angela's skill at depicting the butterfly, which had a gray body and royal blue wings. The edges of the wings were tipped with gray, and striped with horizontal white lines, ending with spots at the corners.

"Jack, of course, could tell you the scientific name," Angela said, "and where it lives and all that. He might be rubbing off on me, but not for every detail.

"So," she said after a moment. "Any news from Booth?"

"Not yet."

"Well, it was a kind of long drive. And they have lots of people and documents to evaluate, right?"

Brennan nodded absently. "I know it's not rational, since the FBI is only allowing him as an observer…but I really should be out there, helping Booth." She frowned at her mug. "Not sitting here messing with paint."

"Mm, same old story," Angela said. "The womenfolk stuck at home with their crockery, while the big strong men hunt down some kind of beast."

"That is not an anthropologically accurate statement."

"I know." Angela smiled gently. "I'm trying to sympathize here. I mean, yes, the two of you usually work together, in the lab or out of it. But…this case is different."

Because we're involved, Brennan thought. After a week of lab work, she felt restless, but it was also true that she sometimes felt out of her element, tagging along with Booth. _He _gets to go on this fact-finding mission, she thought morosely. He could have at least mentioned that I wouldn't find it very interesting, or that the FBI would object if I went along…

Brennan tried to focus back on her painting. Angela was starting to give her that penetrating look again. A bit like Cam's from the other day.

The handle of the mug, she mused, could be a waterfall, splashing away from the rocks and grass. She began painting it blue.

"So…you get to go back to working cases," Angela asked, "going out in the field again? I mean, after this Quantico training stuff?"

"That's right."

Angela dipped her brush into yellow-gold paint. "And are you…looking forward to it?"

"Um…" Brennan frowned at her mug again. The blue handle did not look anything like a realistic waterfall. "Yes," she answered. "I still like getting my hands dirty in the field. Even if that sounds bad, investigating murder scenes."

"But it's pretty exciting sometimes." Angela swished her brush, creating another squiggly line around her butterfly. "It's important work. We all feel that."

"It is important," Brennan said. "Just…"

Angela paused, brush upheld. "What?"

"Well, tiring. It's--" Brennan stared at the rainbow array of paints in front of them. "You know how the cases are, Ange. They make me ill, sometimes. I mean, not literally."

"Yeah," Angela tried to smile. "You have a cast iron stomach."

"But," Brennan followed her train of thought, "even after what happened, with Miranda Charles, and…me and Booth… I couldn't just retire to the lab. I know, I could always work on museum specimens, and write, or teach, and review articles… But it's not the same." She looked up, searching her friend's face for understanding.

Angela nodded. Brennan was being more forthcoming than she had expected. She hadn't even needed to get creative with her prodding. "You could always retire to some fascinating island," Angela suggested, "and travel around, digging up ancient skeletons."

Brennan's mouth curved. "That's still my first love. But…" She put her brush down on the table. What was she trying to say?

Solving cases with Booth was…addicting. The excitement of unraveling the complicated skein of leads. Now, if she always stayed in the lab, she would feel too cloistered, too useless.

"I can't," she said softly, "sit by, while these things continue to happen. Booth and I have the skills to do this. We have to use them."

Angela was looking at her with a mix of sadness and admiration. Something drove Brennan to keep going, to pick up that responsibility again. "You and Booth must be made for each other," she said. "You both got a dose of the same hero complex." Then she dipped her brush in a new paint color. "Well, if the two of you are still game, then I certainly am. I'll reconstruct all the dead people you need, if it can help catch murderers."

They painted in silence for a few minutes. Brennan examined the tips of all the brushes, looking for a finer one. She had thought to paint fossils among the layers on her mug. Because the earth's crust was a patchwork, composed of different soil types, with rocky inclusions, aquifers, tree roots and decomposing matter, it would be realistic to include some skeletal remains. But no, Brennan decided. This patch of ground would have no bones. Not even naturally deposited ones. No dead things for anyone to dig up and examine.

Angela was putting the finishing touches on her plate. Around the meticulous butterfly, multi-colored lines and curlicues radiated outward. Angela tilted the plate back and forth, while they both gazed at it.

"Wow," she said. "I didn't intend those lines to do anything in particular, but…"

"They make the butterfly look almost three-dimensional," Brennan observed. At certain angles, it looked like a real insect sitting on the white surface, with lines of motion indicating the vibration of its wings.

**

While their ceramics were drying in a back room of the shop, they headed for the C&O Towpath. They had already dressed for exercise, in running shoes, tights and fleece.

According to Miranda's mother, she had preferred the part of the path between mile markers five and ten. It was one of the lesser-used sections of this trail, situated between the Potomac river and the canal that ran from Georgetown up to Cumberland.

Brennan agreed it was very pleasant: the packed dirt track lined with trees, their branches reflected in the canal's muddy water. The route was punctuated with locks and historic buildings--over 1300 structures, if Brennan remembered correctly, including dams, aqueducts and pump houses.

She had been on the trail before, of course, but not recently, and never with this added purpose: to somehow honor the girl who had been killed.

"Okay, now, I haven't been out running for a while," Angela said, "so I might want to walk a little. Or a lot."

That was fine with Brennan. She hadn't been out either, letting her ribs heal. Although, perhaps not as well as she should have, jumping back into her usual work and exercise without much of a break. As she and Angela warmed up at a fast walk, she could still feel twinges from the bone and connective tissue across her ribcage. It had been almost five weeks since the injury, but Brennan knew it could be another three before the damage had fully repaired itself.

They alternated walking and running, watching for mile markers, enjoying the scenery, and nodding at the other runners, hikers, or cyclists. Brennan let Angela do all the talking, merely contributing monosyllabic replies at appropriate intervals. She was glad her friend was along, but she was not in the mood to maintain a conversation.

Brennan found herself looking intently at each young woman who passed them. It could have been Miranda Charles--if, of course, Brennan had gone back in time to when she was still alive.

Did she have any suspicion about what would happen? She couldn't have, Brennan thought. Not until it was too late. She wouldn't have had any idea what sort of man she was working for. Anders had simply come across as a smoothly polite businessman.

Brennan sincerely hoped Booth was digging up incriminating things about him from his old records.

The two of them working cases together…they had been away from their usual pattern for too long, she thought. She wanted to feel a part of things again, investigating, not just a squint (albeit a genius-caliber one) in the lab. Solving murders was taxing, yes, but it was also thrilling. It got her heart pumping--like now, jogging up a slight incline with Angela.

Cornering a suspect, or chasing him down…then the interrogation, trapping him in his own lattice of lies until he cracked… It was a high. And even if the lows were harsh ones, it made her feel alive, and powerful, and worthwhile.

Brennan took a breath of chilly air deep into her lungs. One toe felt like it was developing a blister, from a scratchy seam on these socks she shouldn't have worn. But her legs felt strong, her muscles moving efficiently, pumped with warmth and effort.

Miranda, she thought again, would have been running here. Right here, under these trees, next to this canal that smelled of pond scum. Feeling the tiny stabs on her shins at each footfall, the impact sketching stress lines into her tibiae.

**

**Sources**:

--For butterfly information and a picture of the blue wave, online at the butterfly website dot com gallery.

--Bike Washington's C&O Canal Bicycling Guide, online at Bike Washington dot org /canal/.

--The National Park Service's webpages: Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park, at nps dot gov / choh / index dot htm

--Zibart, Eve. _The Unofficial Guide to Washington, D.C. _Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2009.

I needed to refer to all these D.C. guides because I know nothing about the area. Might've been there on a family trip once when I was seven. But this canal towpath is where I'd go running if I was there.


	21. Chapter 21

**Part 21**

On Sunday, Brennan took part in the usual weekend activities: karate, grocery shopping, and some house cleaning. Later in the afternoon, she settled at her computer to write. But not her novel. It had made her skittish, after the last time. While she refused to believe that writing revealed more about the author than the subject matter, she also wasn't sure what dangers her subconscious might unleash, if allowed into creative territory.

It was best to stick with organized, logical review articles, for the anthropology journals she sometimes contributed to.

**

Booth called her in the evening. "I have to go read Parker a bedtime story," he said, "but I wanted to check in, tell you how it went at the Virginia offices. We found some good stuff. At least, I'm hoping it is."

Parker's voice piped up in the background.

"Oops, sorry, I better go make sure he brushed his teeth. So, I'll see you tomorrow, to fill you in. Breakfast at the diner, or else later, in your office?

"My office," she said. "All right."

"Okay, it might not be until ten or later," Booth warned, "because there'll be a lot to correlate at the Bureau. Parker, did you--? Okay, pal, I'll be right there."

Brennan hung up, feeling strangely irritated. He waited until now to contact me, she thought, and didn't even say what they found? It would've made more sense for him to call once his son was asleep. Not keep her in suspense until tomorrow.

She wanted to ring back and demand answers. What evidence had he discovered? Were they any closer to catching Rawling and Anders?

She sighed, and went to check the locks on her doors and windows.

**

That night, Brennan dreamed she was back on the running trail with Angela. But there was another person with them. It was Miranda Charles. She was more of a presence, really, wavering at the edges of vision, a translucent ghost. When Brennan tried to turn, to get a better glimpse of her, she was no longer there.

If she could just see the girl, to give her a hug, or tell her she was sorry... but there was nothing she could do.

Brennan could re-examine bones. She could talk with Liana, and walk this path, retracing Miranda's steps. But she could not bring her back. Could not truly see her.

Now there was another person far ahead, a small silhouette against the horizon. It was Anders.

Brennan was completely alone on the path now--Angela had gone, and there was no sign of Miranda--but she was not afraid. She had Booth's gun in the pocket of her jacket. She felt the reassuring weight of the warm, solid metal.

If she could get closer to Anders, until he was the size of a firing-range cut-out, she could shoot him. She could end this chase right now, by putting a bullet in his head.

She ran, fueled by adrenaline and vengeance, but she could not get closer. As was so often the case in dreams, she moved in slow motion, underwater. Her feet found no purchase on the ground. Fear began to sneak in, as darkness clouded the landscape. What if Anders knew she was there? What if he circled around? He could come up from behind and grab her, like he had in the suite.

Brennan tripped over something, and looked down to see bones on the ground. That one looked like Miranda's tibia. But there were more of them, suddenly everywhere Brennan looked: grayish bones like evil tree roots worming out of the ground. They must be from every victim she had studied. Ribs and humerus, phalanges and sacrum… they rebuked her for not catching Anders. She tried not to step on them, but they were everywhere, like a walkway of crushed shells. She couldn't help it; they cracked under her feet.

Brennan woke, breathing hard as if she'd been running, with the sound of snapping bone in her ears.

**

After that, she could not get back to sleep. The dream had felt more terrifying than it should have been, based on its separate elements. It was reasonable for Brennan to be afraid of Anders, but she was certainly not afraid of bones. Yet they weren't just bones; they had seemed almost sentient. Blocking her way, while she tried to either catch or escape from her attacker. The bones hadn't been trying to hurt her, but the way they'd littered the ground in twisted shapes…the horror she'd felt when she could not avoid stepping on them--

Brennan turned on the bedside lamp, giving up thoughts of sleep. She sat in bed with her arms wrapped around her knees.

Words from the poem Liana had given her continued to whisper through her mind. Repeated like a mantra, or a prayer.

_Stars rain poison upon us, acid which eats clean._

_Give the slip to the devourers, the men I cannot name._

_Wake us like children from a nightmare. _

**

Monday morning, Booth arrived at the lab to update Brennan. He crossed the room on his usual beeline.

Hodgins called to him from the lab platform. "Hey, man, what's up? She's not in her office, if that's where you're going."

Booth stopped. "She's not?"

"No, she's barricaded herself in the auxiliary lab room."

"She's been doing that a lot," Zach put in. "She must prefer that room, maybe because the comparative specimens--"

"What do you mean _barricaded_?" Booth narrowed his eyes. "Locked the door?"

"No, door's open," Hodgins shrugged. "It's the invisible Brennan wall that's at full strength."

Oh, thought Booth, _crap_. What is it now?

He walked down the hall, to the spacious room with drawers lining the walls. There was Brennan, focused on the exam table.

"Hey, Bones," he called from the door. Once she glanced up, he came in. A partial skeleton was displayed on the table, with small labels attached to various bones. Brennan held a clipboard and pen poised over a fat sheaf of paper. "What's this?" he asked.

"A fossil cast of the _Australopithecus afarensis _specimen known as AL 288-1."

Booth gave her the look that told her she was speaking a different language.

"Commonly called Lucy," she added. "After a popular song…"

"Ohh," Booth said, "Yeah, Zach told me this story. She's like, three million years old? Bunch of guys back in the seventies were so happy about finding her, they all got hammered and listened to that Beatles song one too many times."

"It's for a grad student project," Brennan started to explain. "And the skeleton is three point two million years old. I'm going over this thesis from one of the interns, who is also working on an exhibit for--"

"Yeah, that's great," Booth interrupted. "But don't you want to hear about what we discovered this weekend?"

"Of course," she answered, then picked up one of the bones from the table and frowned at it. "As long as now is a good time for you."

Booth gave her a sharp glance. Brennan, being snide?

Now that he got a good look at her, he suspected she hadn't slept. Her hair was neatly pulled back as usual, but there were bruise-colored shadows under her eyes. It suddenly reminded him of the marks on her face, after the suite--from someone's fist, or from being shoved against a hard surface.

"Bones?" Booth realized his mistake. "Should I have told you everything last night? I didn't think. I was focused on Parker, and then, I knew we had a lot of stuff to work out at the Bureau, so I might as well wait until now, when we had more news."

She still didn't look at him, appearing absorbed in the fossil casts.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know if you wanted to hear every detail. But I promise I'll keep you better updated. Okay?"

She looked at him, with those lines between her eyebrows. She sighed. "Yes. That will suffice."

The invisible Brennan wall, he thought. Still there.

Undiscouraged, Booth summarized the information he and Fleming had collected at the offices, the possible contacts Anders had dealt with, and most importantly, the bike messenger's tip about charter planes.

"That phone number on the business card is no longer in service," Booth said, "but the company's still operating. So we're deploying agents right now to investigate. But I pulled a few strings to have this done more undercover. Because I just have a feeling about Anders." Booth bared his teeth. "That we could tip him off, if we swarm all over the company asking about him. There's no guarantee he's still in the country--he'd be smart to get out--but my gut tells me he is."

Brennan thought that sounded like insubstantial evidence on which to act, but she knew, from past experience, not to cast doubt on Booth's intuition.

"We'll try to work fast," he was saying, "but quietly, in case he's still planning to escape anywhere on one of these private jets. We'll go over every inch of every plane if we have to. Every employee and flight plan and document."

"That's good…" Brennan tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, still focusing--or pretending to--on the bones.

"And," Booth forged ahead, "the next thing is, what should we do about Sweets this week?"

"Do about him?"

"Yeah, whether we should let him go ahead with partners' therapy, or if we need to cancel, or else just figure out what courses we're supposed to sign up for at the Quantico in-service."

Brennan turned a vertebra in her hands, looking at it from different angles. "I don't know." Booth thought it was strange to see her handling things without gloves, and reminded himself this was only a reproduction, not the real, ancient bones.

But…didn't she have an opinion about Sweets? She always had an opinion.

"Are you okay, Bones?" he asked softly. "I mean… How was your weekend?--while I was running all over, for files and bike messengers."

"It was fine," she said. "Angela and I got together."

Booth waited. That sometimes worked: if he refrained from speaking, she would offer something else.

It didn't work this time.

"Okay, well…" He didn't exactly want to leave, but couldn't think of a good excuse to stay. "I should get back, but…lunch at the diner? Soon?"

Brennan nodded.

"I'll call you." Booth was heading to the door. "Or you call me."

She had already picked up another bone, fixing it with her attention, as though it would impart some essential fact.

**

Booth decided to stop at Angela's office on his way out. He didn't even have to explain why, because she turned from the graphics on her computer, took one look at him, and said, "I know. She's gone silent again."

Booth nodded. "That's never a good sign."

"No," Angela agreed. She told him what they'd done that weekend, and concluded, "I really don't know what was happening in her head on that running trail. She could just be going over it all in her mind. Waiting for her intellect to catch up to her emotions. But…" Angela twisted her swivel chair back and forth. "She _does _want to be back in the field with you. Saving people and catching bad guys."

Booth grunted, more pleased than he wanted to admit. But worried, too. _You take a squint out in the field, she is your responsibility._ Cracking murders with Bones…everything that it entailed. The bodies, the mess. Lab work, and banter. Interrogations, and risk.

He focused back on Angela. "If she gets too--you know… compartmentalized…you call me, all right?"

Angela promised.

Booth walked out of there thinking, Damn Sweets, maybe he was right about this Quantico in-service crap. Maybe they could use some training wheels, before they hit the road again for real.

**

The partners didn't have to decide if they would ditch Sweets this week, because he called to set up a meeting at the diner. So, the next afternoon, Booth and Brennan arrived early, to have an opportunity to talk alone.

Booth had eaten a few bites of pie before he said, "So, Bones, you never told me what you and Angela did over the weekend."

He could tell Brennan was in a more receptive frame of mind today, or he might not have risked the question. Never mind that he'd already heard it from Angela.

"Oh," she said. "We painted ceramics, then went out on the canal towpath." She stirred her cup of tea with a spoon.

"Ceramics, huh? Painting? You mean," he teased, "you actually did something artistic?"

"Why do you sound so surprised?" she asked indignantly. "I have engaged in a number of culturally significant craft projects over the course of my travels, and I am a bestselling novelist, so I'm sure that the right hemisphere of my brain is not too underdeveloped compared to the left."

"Okay, sorry." He held up his hands in good-natured apology. "How could I forget." Then he raised his brows at her. "So, can I see it?"

She wrinkled her nose. "My brain?"

"No, your--" Booth had to chuckle. "Bones, I really don't want to see anyone's brain, even yours, which I'm sure is just as beautiful and symmetrical as the rest of you." Oops, he caught himself, did I say _beautiful _out loud? "What I mean," he corrected, "is your painted pottery thing. What is it, a mug or something? I just want to see it."

"Okay," she said slowly. "I suppose I can bring it to work later. But…why?"

"Simple curiosity, Bones."

His grin was contagious, and despite herself, she gave him a half-hearted smile.

**

When Sweets arrived, for once he skipped attempts at therapy, and got down to business. "I took the liberty of doing some homework for you," he spread some papers on the table, "to find out when the next round of courses will be. There are actually some starting next week, which fits well with our timeline, to get you back to your crime-solving partnership without too much of a hiatus."

They looked over the selection of courses, Booth debating the merits of several.

"_New strategies of interrogation room psychology_," he read. "Hey, Sweets, how come you're not teaching that?"

Sweets ignored him. "I thought this risk-assessment seminar would be useful, perhaps followed by one of the team-building sessions, like _Interpersonal challenges in FBI partnership_."

Booth looked helplessly at the ceiling. Brennan appeared skeptical herself, but after some discussion, they decided to head to Quantico on Thursday the next week. If they stayed through Friday or Saturday, it would give them the chance to attend two seminars or practical exercises per day.

"Now," Sweets said, "don't forget to try the Firearms Automated Training System. You have to promise to tell me all about it."

"You know, we could just get you in there yourself," Booth offered. "You work for the FBI. You could go to the in-service instead of us, and play that 'video game' all you want."

Sweets smiled crookedly. "Nice try. But you're going. Besides…" he sipped glumly at his soda. "I don't have the prerequisite weapons training."

**

The next morning, as Brennan was about to leave her apartment, she got a call from Agent Romero. This was the woman to whom Cullen had given their John Doe case, when it had looked like their partnership was on the rocks.

"We found two bodies in an empty field in Maryland," Romero reported, "outside of Accokeek, near Piscataway National Park. Looks like a double murder, and not too recent."

"Where, exactly?" Brennan asked. "I'm just leaving, I could be there--"

"Don't bother. We're already having them sent to the Jeffersonian."

Brennan bit back a resentful response. _Booth always lets me come to the scene_. "All right. I'll let my team know." But she couldn't help adding, "Isn't Booth going to work this case?"

"Don't think so," Romero said. "Cullen told me to call you. Booth's probably still too busy with the moving company fraud, as well as the charter planes right now--being an unofficial advisor in the chase for your drug dealers."

Brennan objected strongly to the use of "your," but didn't have a chance to say so, because Romero continued, "I guess I could give him a courtesy call, to let him know I'm borrowing his partner for the time being." She paused. "As long as you _are _still partners?"

"Yes," Brennan said firmly. "We are."

**

**A/N: **As in Chapter 18, I have quoted lines (altered just slightly) from "Prayer to the Mothers," by Diane Di Prima.

FYI, Donald Johanson and Tom Gray discovered Lucy (_Australopithecus afarensis)_ in 1974 in Hadar, Ethiopia. I did a project on her, a few years ago in grad school. Don't quote me on the part about being drunk when they named her.


	22. Chapter 22

**Part 22**

Investigating a murder without Booth, Brennan thought, was disconcerting, and somewhat lonely. For more than a month, she and her team had carried out separate projects, whether assigned by the museum, or a crime-solving agency like the FBI. Now, once more, they were working in concert. Brennan and Cam stood over the shriveled bodies and bickered about what the remaining flesh could or could not tell them. Brennan and Zach scrutinized the bones, sharing observations about epiphyses, stress lines, and radiate fractures. Later, Hodgins would run his tests to decode the meaning of plant, insect, or chemical residues. Angela would reconstruct what the victims might have looked like, including a digital recreation of disintegrated clothing.

But throughout that week of lab work, Booth's absence was painfully obvious.

Agent Romero preferred to call for updates, rather than stopping by the Jeffersonian--which she only did if she needed to pick up actual evidence, such as x-rays. She was, Brennan decided, too business-like. And that was paradox, because efficiency and a focus on work were to be applauded. But the woman did not adequately appreciate the scientific processes being conducted here. She was too impatient, too blunt, too lacking in humor. She was no substitute for Booth.

At least he was staying in touch with Brennan (and through her, the squints). He would call every day to tell her what was happening in the search for Rawling and Anders.

One such call took place on Friday. When Brennan saw Booth's number on her cell phone, she decided to take a break from studying high resolution bone scans, and went to her office.

It sounded like Booth was being kept busy, and didn't feel too badly about missing out on this double murder. "Will you still be able to go to the Quantico training next week?" he asked her.

"I think so. We have to continue our analysis, but Zach and I think we've identified the murder weapon. And Agent Romero is looking into similar instances, because she suspects a match with a known criminal. So," Brennan said, "unless something unexpected comes up, we should be able to close the case in time."

Booth wasn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed, that they would have to attend those Quantico sessions after all. "Well," he said, "I have had to do some of this re-training over the years. It's part fun, part punishment. You know, maybe twenty-five or fifty percent of it is useful, but the rest is just talk. Regulations you never use, and end up forgetting anyway.

"So," he asked, "how is Romero working out?"

Brennan gave an exasperated sigh. "She doesn't tell us enough," she complained. "As far as she's concerned, we exist merely to explain results and provide evidentiary support. She takes all of that, and…leaves. She doesn't…" Brennan searched for a better summary. "She's not you."

Booth smiled to himself. "Well," he said, "I'm sure you can handle her for one case. Okay, now what I really called to tell you about is the current plan…"

Brennan started to pace her office, listening.

"You know we suspect that Anders and Rawling are going to stick together," Booth told her, "for god knows what reason. So we want to use both their mug shots, to see if anyone at the charter plane company recognizes them, but we also need to do it quietly, in case Anders has some contact there who might warn him."

Brennan nodded slowly, staring at the skull casts on the shelf next to her desk. _Gorilla_, she named the first one in her head. _Homo erectus_. Microcephalic _Homo sapiens_.

"It's actually a two-pronged approach," Booth elaborated. "One is the open federal investigation, but we're pretending it's for Rawling, on unrelated charges. See, we've already got strong evidence that they flew with this company in the past--based on flight records, and some employees identifying their photos. We even think this is how they escaped the D.C. area, after we caught them at the suite. Probably they took a car, and then got this private jet just outside Baltimore."

Brennan was still looking at the gorilla skull, noting its large canines, and the sagittal crest along the top of the skull, where the powerful chewing muscles attached.

"The second thing," Booth said, "is to have undercover agents posing as customers, kind of like we're doing with the moving company scam. We're sending in some good actors, who'll say they need to fly somewhere on these privates planes, but they'll also insinuate things. You know, having sensitive cargo they need transported, no questions asked. That way, if Anders had an inside guy for his smuggling, or if there's at least someone who can be bribed to look the other way, we might be able to nail them."

Brennan had walked to the far corner of her office, and turned around. The first couple of times Booth had called with updates, she had listened alertly, and offered suggestions for inquiry. But, after Booth had gently told her she was off base, or that they'd thought of that a long time ago, she stopped trying. It was true she had come up with useful insights, on occasion. But this time, she was not part of the investigation.

"I know," Booth concluded, "getting some corrupt employee is only one piece of the puzzle, but if there's clearly illegal stuff going on--we can take out one more of Anders' contacts, and at least get another step closer to him."

Brennan gave her partner an unenthusiastic thanks for the news.

There was an odd silence on the line. "Bones?" Booth must have understood something from her one-syllable responses. "If you don't want all the details, you can just say so. I know a while back you and Sweets were worried about me, that I was thinking too much about this case and the criminals. So, if you don't want to think about it, that's totally fine."

Brennan was staring out her office door, at lab-coated, industrious figures. There was Hodgins, bent over a row of test tubes.

"Bones? Are you there?"

"Yes," she said. "I--"

To be honest, she didn't know what she wanted. Part of her wanted to say, No, leave me out of it, I want nothing to do with those criminals. Don't tell me a thing until they are behind bars. Get them out of my brain and locked away.

But she insisted to Booth that she did want to know. That was always better than not knowing, wasn't it?

Besides, she thought, as they ended the call, she didn't want to seem…weak. Sheltered and uninvolved. Like a victim who couldn't handle it.

She had still half believed she could do something in this case. As if she could be the vengeful female force from Liana's poem, helping Booth and the FBI to capture the offenders. As if she could be some Wonder Woman swooping down to arrest the wicked men, and march them off in handcuffs.

Brennan shook her head at herself, glancing around the office.

The skull casts on her shelf--their empty eye sockets leered at her. The male gorilla's robust features spoke of power, and hostility, and a relatively small brain. Typical, she thought. Of demonic males everywhere.

Her determination, at the Quantico crash--it had been misplaced. Of course, matching those identities had been a valuable job. But in reality, she was back in this lab, and powerless. Too late to help more victims of crime.

**

On Saturday, Brennan was back in her office compiling notes, and cataloguing the marks and injuries to the bodies. Everyone, the lab team and Romero included, was working at least one day that weekend, toward resolving the murder case.

When she looked up, Booth was standing in the doorway, wearing a wet raincoat and shivering.

"Whew, it's freezing out there." He started to pull off his jacket, and hung it by the door. "I figured you'd be here. Solved the case yet?"

"No, but we're getting close." She eyed the drips of water pooling on her office floor. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to go in to the Bureau anyway, and figured I'd stop by. I've hardly been here all week--it's almost like I miss this place." He came over to her desk, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "I thought we could get lunch later? Hot chocolate, hamburgers, cherry pie?"

Brennan was still holding her pen over the assortment of papers. "All right. To lunch, not to your food choices."

Then Booth noticed the painted mug resting on her desk.

"Hey, is this it?" He reached to pick it up by its blue handle.

Brennan looked back at her notes while he examined it, feigning disinterest in his opinion.

Booth turned the cup in his hands, gazing at the undulating stripes of brown, green and blue. At first, he thought it was a relatively simple design. But if you paid attention, he realized, you were rewarded with a surprising depth of detail. Brennan hadn't just painted smooth bands of color, but had used different brushstroke techniques to add texture. This blue layer, for instance, was composed of paint dabs, like water droplets. And this green layer was crosshatched with tiny lines, like blades of grass.

"Wow," he said after a moment. "This is really something, Bones. Did you mean it to be abstract, or…?"

"Representational?" She shrugged. "I didn't have anything in mind at first, but then it did start to resemble--"

"Wait," Booth said, "don't tell me. How about layers of the ocean? See, here's the ocean floor, and the really deep water, and then it gets lighter until you reach the blue sky. Or else, it's hills and underground layers, with rocks and soil underneath."

Brennan was watching him, still puzzled about his interest--but he was sure she looked pleased as well. "That's what you were thinking, right?" he prodded. "I got it! Subterranean layers. And," he was inspired, "the blue handle? That would be an underground spring, or a waterfall."

His triumphant smile tried to draw her out. She smiled back, a little self-consciously. "How did you know that? Are my artistic skills that good?"

"Yeah, Bones," he said generously. "Besides…I know you."

Brennan was still shaking her head at him, and after a moment, looked down at her notes--maybe, he thought, as an excuse to break eye contact. Booth saw she'd been penciling in markings on one of those diagrams of the human skeleton, to indicate abrasions, decay, or blunt-force trauma.

Booth turned the mug in his hands again, reflectively. There was something idyllic about its painted landscape. He could almost see a young Brennan painting this in school art class: frowning carefully over it, illustrating nature with an attention to detail, but not a scientific precision. Booth contemplated the calming blues and greens. There was an innocent feel to them, too…as though the painter had yet to experience anything like desertion, or murder, or assault.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "this is really nice, Bones. Maybe you should do this sort of thing more often, instead of all that squinty science." He started to put the mug down on the desk, but she, impulsively, pushed it back into his hands.

"Would you like to keep it?"

"What?"

Brennan studied Booth as he held the ceramic cup. "You appreciate the aesthetic value," she told him. "I'm glad. I want you to have it."

The mug would remind her of spending a few pleasant hours with Angela, but it also made her think of the running trail, and her nightmare about it: the ghost Miranda, the lurking Anders. The misshapen bones, under the layers of the earth.

Booth did not know any of this. He liked it simply because it was pretty.

Brennan tried to read his expression, and decided he was surprised and pleased at her offer.

"That's--" he said. "Yeah, if you want me to have it… I'd be flattered." Then he grinned. "Hey--will you sign the back? So I could have an autographed, original piece, by a famous anthropologist/author?

Bones tried to look annoyed, like she was humoring him, but she let her eyes sparkle. She found a permanent pen in her drawer and initialed the base.

After they'd arranged what time they would meet for lunch, Booth was on his way out. "Oh," Brennan called, "they said at the shop, it's best not to put that in the dishwasher; it can cause the paint to fade over time."

He turned at the door to her office. "Okay, I'll remember." He held the mug in the air and grinned cheekily, but his eyes were sincere. "I'll treat it like a precious artifact."

**

The partners met again on Tuesday evening. As a sort of celebration, Booth said, because they had both cracked their cases. They went to one of the restaurants they frequented, and sat together at the bar with tall mugs of beer. Silverware clinked, and voices rumbled from the tables behind them. The bartender moved about, filling glasses with a hiss and gurgle from the taps.

"It was classic," Booth said. "It worked out perfectly." He was regaling Brennan with the story of catching the moving company swindlers. "There I was, in the car with Munroe, waiting around the corner while our undercover agents had their stuff packed into the moving van. And these so-called movers--just like we thought they would--they rushed our people through signing these non-legit documents, and then they demanded extra money on the spot. You should have seen the looks on their faces when we showed up and flashed our badges."

Brennan was watching her partner with a small smile, sharing his victory.

"They were like deer in the headlights," Booth said. "Caught, with nowhere to run. And," he gave an evil chuckle, "after that, they just looked pissed, but it was too late, 'cause we were already handcuffing them." He took a big swallow of beer, licking some of the froth from his lip.

It was good, Brennan thought, to see him in this animated storytelling mode. In the bar's dim lighting, against the brown of his leather jacket, his eyes looked deeper and more glinting.

"Plus," Booth went on, "there was a parallel sting in Richmond on the same day, and they were successful too. So we caught at least some of the moving scammers. There are more out there--Pittsburgh, other places--but we can pressure these guys to reveal some of their contacts. To see if they're acting singly, or if they're cooperating, and how big their net is. Stuff like vehicle licenses and payment records--" Booth waved a careless hand, "we can look into all that, to get more information."

Brennan was slowly rotating her glass, looking at the wet rings it left on the table. The polished wood surface reflected gleams from the neon signs over the bar.

"So, Bones, tell me about your case."

"It…" she sighed. "It's not as satisfying as yours. The murderer was already in prison. We were able to match the bodies to missing persons reports, and Romero checked the Bureau database. They suspected he had killed others, but no one had found them until now."

Brennan paused as the bartender came by, and she nodded at him to refill her mug. Booth held his out, too.

"The judge," she continued, "will probably add decades to the man's sentence, but…he's already incarcerated for the rest of his life. Nothing really changes for him."

"Well…" Booth stared into his beer. "You got the answers, Bones. That's what counts." He looked at her, both sad and encouraging. "Those people's families know for sure what happened. The bad guy _is _behind bars."

Brennan nodded somberly.

"Here," Booth said. He slid his mug toward hers, and they clinked glasses.

She couldn't help asking, "What for?"

He shrugged, his face grave. "Closure. Mystery solved. Answers won." He tilted his head at the glasses they had just toasted. "Here's to more of the same."

His meaning was clear, and Brennan nodded in return. They had solved these recent cases, but not together. And their most glaring case was…left hanging. Brennan couldn't be part of the search, and Booth was relegated to making suggestions, rather than real detective work. It was too early to tell if they would find Anders and Rawling, to make them atone for their crimes.

Brennan made an effort to dispel them from her mind. She lifted her beer glass. "And here's to some edifying seminars at Quantico."

"Ugh, edifying?" Booth asked. "I'm not sure they know what that means. I'm not sure _I_ know what that means. Especially after two or three beers." He gazed at his mug with an appreciative, if somewhat fuzzy expression.

"Just let me know what time to pick you up on Thursday," he told her. "Tomorrow I've got all this paperwork and follow-up to go through…"

"So do I," Brennan said.

"But then we can head out of town. First seminar's not until the afternoon, but if you want to go early and meet with that self defense instructor…"

"Yes, I already contacted her, and she has some time Thursday morning."

"Works for me," Booth said. "I could go check out the fitness center; it's been renovated since I was there last. Or I could run the course around the grounds." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "See if I can do it as fast as when I was a hotshot cadet."

**

**A/N:** Brennan's choice of words while looking at the gorilla skull is a nod to the following book, which I read in an undergraduate anthropology class. It is also where I got the idea for her speech about orangutans and 'genetically inferior' males back in Chapter 1. (Assuming that I remembered correctly, from my reading 8-10 years ago!).

_--Demonic Males: Apes and the Origins of Human Violence_, by Richard Wrangham and Dale Petersen.

I don't think Brennan actually has a gorilla skull among her office collection (we can never get a long enough glimpse to tell), but it seemed to fit with the story.


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 23**

After the partners arrived at Quantico, they went their separate ways for the morning. Booth headed for the main workout area of the gym, while Brennan met with a self defense expert in one of the adjoining rooms.

They reconvened for lunch in the cafeteria. Placing their trays of food on a table by the windows, they could enjoy a view of the tree-lined grounds.

A noisy group of students sat down nearby, wearing sweaty _FBI_-printed t-shirts.

"Did you run the course with them?" Brennan asked, digging a fork into her salad and grilled chicken.

"No," Booth said. "I ran into an old friend in the gym, who went here when I did. He came for the in-service too. We stayed there to work out, although we probably exercised our jaws as much as our actual muscles." He took a gulp of water, and started on his overstuffed sandwich, which was shedding bits of turkey, tomato and lettuce onto his plate.

They were both quiet for a few minutes. Booth stole glances at his partner, because he couldn't figure out if Bones seemed tired, or calm, or resigned. She was wearing a faded green jacket that brought out the color of her eyes. And, while she looked like she'd been sleeping better, there was a watchful quality about her. Maybe, he thought, it just the anthropologist in her, observing the behavior of people in this environment.

Before lunch they had gone to check into their hotel rooms, and change out of workout clothes. The place they were staying was located just outside the academy grounds, within walking distance, and was popular with other agents. During these re-training sessions, they had the option to stay in the dormitories, but Booth had guessed those would be too spartan for Brennan's taste.

"So," he said, "how do you like your hotel room?"

"It's fine," she said. "Nice."

"And did you learn any cool tricks with the martial arts woman?"

Brennan drizzled some dressing onto her salad, and replaced the bottle in the center of the table.

"Yes and no," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"I did learn a few things they don't teach in karate," she said. "I thought… I wanted to find out, specifically, what techniques might be successful against an armed opponent."

Booth felt his sandwich sticking in his throat. He had suspected this--why she'd wanted to meet with this self defense teacher in the first place. It was typical Bones. After a traumatic event, she would work harder, study more. See if there was anything she could have done better.

"And…" he said guardedly, "did you learn anything…that could've helped?"

She knew exactly what he was getting at: could something have given us the advantage, to repel the criminals in that suite?

"No," she answered. "I mean, I don't think so." For a moment, she held his eyes, and there he read a tangle of emotions that was now becoming familiar: apology, regret, and a bitter sort of acceptance.

"But," Brennan said, stabbing her fork into a stray tomato, "I feel better for practicing a few new blocks and disarming methods."

**

That afternoon, they attended their first seminar, and after dinner, they headed to an evening session in a different campus building.

"All right, before we look at some case studies," the instructor was saying, "I wanted to address something that came up in another seminar. And that is, who's in charge within a partnership."

Booth and Brennan were sitting at adjacent desks, notebooks and pens in front of them, their jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. She glanced at him, and he gave her a sly grin, pointing a thumb at himself as if to say, _I'm in charge._

Brennan was willing to let him have this one. After all, he was FBI and she wasn't. It was only reasonable to yield to his expertise in some areas.

"Two agents out on a call," the professor was saying. "You both have guns, you both have this training. But if there's an important decision to be made, who makes it? This may sound like a simple question, but it can get quite complicated."

Booth was suddenly looking much less confident. Brennan could guess that he was thinking, again, about the way they'd handled the suspects and their threats. He was still uncomfortable with his reaction, even if it had been the wisest one.

"So who makes the decision," the professor asked, "whether it's who goes first into a building, or what line of inquiry to pursue in the interrogation room? Basically, who's the top dog?"

Brennan was considering that anthropological comparison, when she saw Booth reach into his shirt pocket. His cell phone must have been set on vibrate; he took it out and looked at the screen.

Brennan knew by his face that it was something big.

His eyes darted to hers, dark and turbulent. Together they slipped out of the room.

In the hall, Booth silently showed her the message, his jaw tense.

It was from Fleming. _Anders sighted in CA. Taking a plane tonight. Call for info. _

Brennan stared at the text, then at Booth.

He, still without speaking, punched in Fleming's number. When the other agent picked up, Brennan could hear him talking rapidly. After several seconds, Booth demanded, "You're sure? Someone actually saw him?"

Brennan clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

She heard Fleming answer in the negative, but couldn't make out the rest of the sentence.

"Yeah… That was one of the suspected pseudonyms," Booth said, "but one we couldn't confirm."

Brennan listened impatiently to the one-sided conversation. Booth had started pacing up and down, and she understood the need to move about rather than stand still. She wanted to pace, too, but she could hardly trail after him, stepping on his heels. Instead she looked out the window that ran along this section of hallway. The darkness outside made much of the glass reflective, except for the glow of one streetlamp. It cast a surreal light on a tree next to the sidewalk, making the naked branches look stark and artificial.

"A flight scheduled for when?" Booth asked.

Brennan couldn't stand it. She went up to him and plucked at his sleeve. "Booth, put it on speaker phone."

But he was scribbling onto his notepad, hunching one shoulder to hold the phone against his ear. He glanced at her, but was clearly focused on what Fleming was saying.

"Yeah, okay… Good, that's… When?… Yeah, I'm at Quantico. Yes, that's perfect. I'll meet you there."

Booth flipped his phone shut and, finally, turned to Brennan. "They think they've got Anders," he said tightly. "He's trying to make a run for it. His name, one of his pseudonyms, came up on a private flight scheduled for early tomorrow, from Fresno to Cabo San Lucas."

Booth was pulling on his jacket that he had grabbed upon leaving the seminar room, and now started striding down the hall, with Brennan hurrying alongside.

"We wouldn't have seen it if we hadn't already been looking," Booth said. "Because of what we got from the bike messenger, we had people watching every detail of this company--every transaction, every name on the flight manifests."

"Are they sure it's him?" Brennan asked as they rounded a corner.

"Not completely. But there's a pretty good chance. We won't really know until we go to apprehend him. I _knew _it--" Booth made a fist, "that he was still in the country. And we can _get _him. See, he was probably delayed because of bad weather--that's what one of our guys pointed out, who was watching the west coast traffic. Those small planes can't fly in adverse conditions, and he wasn't going to risk taking a commercial vehicle and being recognized.

"So they're letting me come along," Booth continued, "because it was my case originally, and--"

"_Our _case," Brennan started to say, but he wasn't listening.

"We're taking the red-eye; there's a flight leaving D.C. at eleven tonight. It gets into California before five," Booth swiftly explained, "and that gives us time to get to this smaller airport and into position, with the tac team meeting us there at seven. The plan is to nab him on the tarmac before they can take off."

They were coming up to a stairwell, and Brennan grabbed her partner's sleeve again, to get him to stop.

"Booth, I want to come along."

"Bones, that's not a good idea. Look, Fleming can pick me up on his way to the airport. I'm meeting him at the north entrance, once I get my stuff from my room." Booth fished his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. "Here--so you can drive home."

She caught them automatically. "No, Booth--I want to go."

"Bones, there's no time. They're barely letting _me _go. Besides, it could be a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. Sitting in a car, or just letting the team catch him. I might not even get to have my gun. And in that case," he said sternly, "I don't want you there."

What he meant was that if anything went wrong, and he was unarmed, he would be unable to fully protect her. And he would not risk that happening again.

But all Brennan heard was _I don't want you along. _She stood clutching his keys, too surprised and hurt to keep arguing.

Booth had started down the stairs. "Okay, I have to run. Go play the firearms automated video game tomorrow, and shoot all the bad guys. I'll call you." He disappeared around the corner.

Brennan stood there, hands forming fists at her sides. The keys dug into her palm, and she wanted to hit something. She wanted to run after Booth. That was foolish, but… she cast a desperate glance around the empty hallway.

There was a poster on the wall advertising a government health plan. A window framed the glare of another streetlamp.

Brennan cursed under her breath, then shoved the keys into her pocket and ran down the stairs after Booth. She knew she had waited too long; he would be too far ahead, if she was truly trying to catch him. Because what would she do if she did? Keep demanding to go? Start crying? Become irrational, throw her arms around him and beg him to be careful?

She reached the ground floor and pelted down the long corridor, startling two people standing in a doorway. Although, a part of her mind told her, they would not be overly surprised, since this was the FBI training center, where emergency drills were a common occurrence.

Brennan reached the exit and burst out into the cold dark air. Booth would have gone around the side of the building, the shortest way back to their hotel. She kept running along the sidewalk, dead leaves crunching and skittering away under her feet.

She was sprinting too fast, her lungs gasping, the cold air gusting against her hot cheeks. This is crazy, she told herself. What am I doing?

She had already passed two buildings, but finally stopped herself at the corner of the next, stumbling against a tree and slapping both palms onto its rough bark.

For a second she just leaned there--her fingers splayed against the trunk, breathing hard, the dry, earthy smell of the tree filling her nose.

Gradually her breathing slowed. She straightened up, tugging her blazer around her. The cold was sinking in, shocking her back to common sense.

But it had felt good to run, to use up some of the adrenaline coasting through her muscles.

Brennan scanned the sidewalks and trees in front of her. There was no sign of Booth, but she could imagine him, jogging purposefully across the darkened grounds. His face turned toward the quarry.

Slowly, Brennan turned back the way she had come, trudging along the sidewalk. She had to go back to the seminar. She had left her jacket and her notes there…and it was still a valuable opportunity to listen and learn something.

She was shivering by the time she re-entered the building. Walking back along the hall, under the fluorescent lights, she thought, this is what we wanted. A promising lead. Anders could be in jail tomorrow. Anders, the drug smuggler. The murderer. The rapist.

Tears came to her eyes; angry, powerless tears.

Brennan climbed back up the stairs and approached the classroom. What if the name on the flight plan wasn't really him? And what about Rawling, where was he? This could be another false alarm.

Booth was rushing off to find out…and she had to wait here.

She stood at one side of the hallway, looking at the same eerie streetlight and tree branches.

She was missing the seminar, but didn't really want to go back in. She felt bereft, lonely. And pointless here, without Booth.

Turning, Brennan went into the bathroom at the end of the corridor. She ran water on her hands, first cold, and then hot. It made her hands tingle, as though a rope had just been released from her wrists. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale, her eyes red.

She would just go back to the classroom. That was what she had come here for. That was all she could do.

**

She received a few curious looks as she slipped back into her seat. Classmates were obviously wondering where she had been, and why Booth had not returned with her. But they were FBI, after all, and accustomed to working around classified information. Most didn't give her a second look, once she'd settled into her chair.

Still, it reminded her of high school.

The desks and notebooks. The hard-to-read writing on the blackboard. The way people even raised their hands to volunteer.

And the way she felt like an outsider.

Brennan looked around, at all the other FBI agents. Without Booth, she didn't really belong here. He made her legitimate. With Booth, she was half the partnership, possessing a unique skill set that complemented his. But without him, she was just an oddball squint. A loner, a nerdy girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch.

And there was no Russ, calling from outside the window to check on her, to keep her company. His cool had rubbed off on her, just as Booth's presence, here, let her fit in. But Russ had driven out of her life. Just like Booth had run off now.

Stop it, she told herself. He did not abandon you. He went to see justice served. He went to catch the man who raped you.

And she was _not _pointless here, without Booth. She was a highly intelligent person, interested in the subject matter. She was an asset to the FBI, no matter who she worked with. Except that she didn't want to work with anyone else.

Without Booth, it was not the same; Romero had been further proof of that. There was no spark, no banter making it fun. Without Booth, the cases were more demoralizing, the government protocols more tedious.

But she would handle it the same way she'd handled high school. By focusing on what she could control: her engagement with the topic and her knowledge of the material.

Brennan picked up her pen, glancing at the notes she'd already taken.

The instructor was presenting case studies, situations in which things had gone particularly well or poorly for the agents involved, and asking the class to discuss what factors had contributed to the different outcomes.

Brennan listened to the scenarios, and the other agents' comments. None of the cases exactly paralleled what she and Booth had experienced, but there were enough similarities to make her vigilant.

She raised her hand. "How should their response have changed," she asked, "if the suspects had had an additional, concealed weapon?"

**

When the seminar ended, Brennan walked back to the hotel. She put down her bag, took off her jacket and shoes. But then she stood in the center of the room, irresolute. She should simply go to bed. Take a relaxing shower, read the _National Geographic _she had brought along…swallow some strong alcohol from the mini-bar, to increase the likelihood of sleep.

But she couldn't relax. Couldn't think where to start.

She looked around at the hotel's bland color scheme. Dull brown carpet. Dreary green trim along the ceiling. Pale colors patterning the bedspread: gray-blue, sage green, beige.

It was too impersonal, too anonymous. She wanted to be in her apartment, surrounded by her own things.

But it would make no sense to leave now. The room was paid for, and it was getting late. There were more things to learn at the seminars tomorrow.

Brennan looked around the room again. Her eyes slid over the furnishings, the bare walls--finding no purchase, nothing to latch on to.

Without pausing to think, she gathered the few items she had unpacked, and stuffed them into her bag. She went to the lobby, dropping her key at the desk and telling them she'd had a change of plans. No, she understood there was no refund.

She got into Booth's car and started back to D.C.

At least, this time of night, there was little traffic. Brennan squinted at the streaks of red tail-lights from passing cars. The road signs reflected brightly, green and white, the colors glittering in the few drops of rain on the windshield.

Booth's car, she thought. When had she ever gotten to drive, and alone?

Only if something awful had happened. If Booth had been hurt, while saving someone. While saving her. Or when he'd let her drive to reassure her, not knowing the truth about her parents' identities, her mother's murder.

Either way, being on this side of the car… It meant her world had turned upside down.

**

That night, she barely slept. Even at home, with the familiar, safe surroundings, her mind would not quiet.

Brennan lay in bed, her baseball bat resting against the wall, in easy reach.

She listened to the heat going on, and the silence when it shut off.

She had not made it a habit to count the days since the rape. But today, she realized, marked exactly six weeks since it had happened. Sometimes, it felt like yesterday. The images, the sensations--they were imprinted on her brain in high resolution. This, she knew, was a side-effect of adrenaline; it made you hyper-aware of your surroundings, so you could handle whatever stressor the situation threw at you.

Brennan turned onto her side, pulling the blankets over her ears. But it didn't stop her brain from manufacturing unlikely yet horrifying scenarios.

What if Booth came back empty-handed, because this lead was a false alarm? Or worse, some elaborate set-up? Booth, lured into a trap. Rawling and Anders, lying in wait. They would fire their weapons. They would kill Booth.

Or else they had purposefully drawn him away from her, so she would be vulnerable. They would come and break into her apartment. They would rape her again, and then kill her.

She should have stayed at Quantico, in that stronghold of law enforcement, where she would be safer.

This was absurd. Brennan sat up and turned on the lights, her eyes aching at the sudden brightness. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, then curled in an armchair with a blanket over her knees. Reaching for the remote, she turned the TV on at low volume. She found a documentary, and its murmured voice-over and flickering light offered a comforting background.

_Was _it really Anders on the flight plan? Would she get to see him behind bars, as soon as tomorrow?

She had wanted this to happen so badly. Catching the bad guys who had eluded them. Achieving some semblance of justice. But in the meantime, she had gone on with her life, more or less as normal. The day when the suspects would be caught--it had been _out there _somewhere. She had not had to confront it.

Brennan grabbed her cell phone resting on the coffee table and dialed Angela's number. It wasn't the first time she had, in a moment of weakness, made a midnight call to her friend. Because Angela could be so sweet and understanding. And blessedly distracting.

But there was no answer, and that must mean she was spending the night with Hodgins. Brennan put the phone down. She could not bring herself to call there. He would be the one to pick up, and he would hear half the conversation. He would know that his rational, confident boss was lying awake in the middle of the night, afraid of phantoms.

**

**A/N: **Okay, if Brennan and Hodgins spent all that time together buried alive, I don't know if she would be as concerned about this. But maybe that hasn't happened yet, because, as I've said, I don't like to stake my story to a particular time frame. Hey, Brennan's just in this isolated space right now… because we need to add to the emotional trauma (my poor characters)!

Plus, I have to admit that I really had no intention of describing the entire Quantico thing in detail. But I'd say this interruption is worth it.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: **I realized after writing the rough draft of this section, that the line of Cam's, about Angela neglecting her duties as a best friend, sounded like something I'd read before. I went back to check, and yes, I seem to have borrowed it from Ch. 10 of SuchAGoodGirl's "Making babies takes more than biology." Hope you don't mind, and thanks.

**Part 24**

Dr. Saroyan was walking down a deserted back corridor of the Jeffersonian. Just as she approached a storage locker, the door opened, and Hodgins tumbled out with Angela, both giggling.

"Oh, good Lord." Cam put a hand over her eyes. "I went looking for Angela, and I should have known what I might find."

Straightening her blouse, Angela tried to stop smiling. "Sorry. What is it?"

Cam pointed a finger at her. "You," she said sternly, "are neglecting your duties as best friend."

Angela was immediately concerned. "What's happened?"

"Brennan," Cam informed them, "has been down in Limbo since she got here this morning. Which, according to the security guard, was about 6:30 a.m."

"Oh, no. I thought--" The flush on Angela's skin was quickly turning to pallor. "I didn't know she was still down there! She didn't bring the bones back up to examine? Oh, god."

"I realized I hadn't seen her all morning," Cam explained, "so I went down to the basement. And there she is, standing over tables of bones for these mystery soldiers. When I went to talk to her, she had this manic gleam in her eye, like, 'if I don't identify these bones, the world's going to end.' I thought…" Cam surveyed Angela. "I was willing to go back down, if she hadn't emerged after an hour or so, to--I don't know--stage an intervention, but I thought you were the best one."

Angela was nodding in a stunned sort of way. "Something," she said, "is definitely going on. Oh, I am gonna kill Zack. I asked him, because I only saw Brennan for about a second when I came in, and he _said _she was working with remains from Limbo--but he never said _where_. I just assumed the auxiliary lab room. And I was going to check on her, after our--" she glanced at Hodgins, "--lunch."

"Why did she come back early from Quantico, anyway?" Jack asked. "I thought they weren't due back until tomorrow."

"She said," Angela sounded uncertain, "it was something about Booth getting called away on a case."

"And you believed that?" Cam asked.

"Well--no, now that you mention it. But the FBI's been sending me a whole slew of photos that I'm supposed to--and the museum needs extra help with its graphics, but… That's no excuse.

"Yeah." Angela exhaled loudly, as if preparing herself. "Someone has to go get her out of there. I'll see what I can do."

**

Angela walked through the silent basement storage room, her footsteps echoing on the tile. She found Brennan in one corner, where she had taken over three entire tables. She was wearing the familiar blue lab coat and holding a clipboard, with additional forms and charts stacked at one end of an exam table. On the right-hand table was a box of bones, neatly labeled with the newly-identified person's name. To the left was a numbered box typical of those in Limbo, and in the center was the current set of remains, the bones set out in anatomical order.

Angela approached with some trepidation. "Brennan?" she asked, deciding to be direct about this. "Why have you got yourself secluded down here?"

Brennan glanced up and acknowledged, "Angela." Then she gave the obvious reply. "I'm identifying these remains."

She made a note on a form, then picked up the sternum and peered at its edges, where the ribs had attached.

Cam had been right, Angela saw. Brennan had clearly not entered that state of calm concentration that studying bones usually imparted. Her movements were jerky, her eyes unfocused.

Angela paused to gather her resources, and glanced around. This corner of the room was framed by tall walls of drawers on one side, with equipment cabinets on the other, in silver, gray-blue, or white. The cool, neutral shades were either calming or depressing, depending on your mood. And, like most of the lab, the room was composed of clean, stark lines. Just, Angela thought, like Brennan's face at the moment.

She noticed a coffee cup and bottled water on another table, both empty. She was sure her friend could use some food and sleep. But first she had to find out what was going on.

"I thought," Angela began, "we could get some lunch."

Brennan looked completely distracted by the sternum in her hands. "Is it lunch time?"

"Yeah, it is. We could eat here in the lounge, or go out some place, depending on what you feel like…"

No response.

"So," Angela changed topic, "what happened with the Quantico training? Were the seminars any good?"

"They did present some valuable information and guidance."

"And where did Booth run off to?"

Angela did not know how accurate her phrasing was. But she did know that now, Brennan looked angry. Or was it lonely, even scared?

She put the sternum back down on the table, and she didn't do it gently. She could have broken it, Angela thought.

"Brennan." There was a note of severity in her voice this time. "Something happened at Quantico," she stated. "Something bad."

Brennan abruptly moved around the corner of the table, nearly elbowing her friend out of the way as she did so.

"You might as well tell me, because I'm not leaving here until you do." Angela folded her arms. She waited.

Brennan was now looking at the left foot and ankle, although half the foot was missing. She touched several bones, murmuring their names to herself. "Navicular… cuboid… lateral cuneiform…"

Angela was going to have to wait a long time. "All right," she said, "should I guess, what happened at Quantico? Did you," she tried to joke, "fail some assessment test, or accidentally shoot somebody in the foot? Like this poor soldier here?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Brennan had been leaning over the end of the table. Slowly, she straightened up. Her eyes never leaving the bones, she said, "Booth got a call that Anders was sighted in California. He went to verify that lead."

She said it quickly, but with deliberate calm.

"Oh god," Angela said. "That's great. I--" Brennan's stony expression, her lack of reaction, stopped her. "That's not great? I mean… When was this? Where?"

"Booth took an overnight flight yesterday. To Fresno. A team is meeting them there."

"And how did they--"

"I don't want to talk about this right now."

Angela watched her holding the clipboard in a tight grip, her eyes boring into the list of anatomical check points and statistical variants.

"Okay, sweetie, that's fine. Just…" Angela came around the corner of the table, to stand closer to her friend. "Will you please come back upstairs? Where there are actual windows? And where people who love you can keep an eye on you?"

Angela knew that was more candid than was perhaps wise, given that Brennan didn't want people eying her strangely…but she might be inclined to accept, after the kind of night she must've had.

Angela made her next suggestion just as gently. "Why don't we go out for a walk, before or after lunch. It's not that cold today, and the fresh air will be nice after--"

Brennan's cell phone rang, and she grabbed for it in her lab coat pocket, like it was a bomb that would go off. The clipboard clattered onto the table, and she didn't even bother to remove her gloves.

"Booth?" she cried.

Angela could hear Booth's voice through the phone. It was triumphant. "Bones, _we got him_. We have him in custody."

Brennan's face went blank and shocked. She didn't seem to be breathing. If Angela didn't know better, she'd think her friend was going to faint. She reached out to steady her arm, just in case.

"Bones?" Booth was saying. "Are you there?"

She blinked, and took an audible breath, then said with remarkable composure, "Yes. That's good to hear."

"We just touched down in D.C. Took a government jet this time, so we could lock Anders in the back under guard, and not have to look at him."

Booth's voice was a little distorted, but Angela was standing close enough to hear everything. "We'll be at FBI headquarters in about forty-five minutes."

"I--" Brennan faltered, and started again. "I can meet you there."

"What?" Booth asked. "Aren't you still at Quantico?"

"No, I went home. I'm at the lab."

"Bones--then you should just stay at the lab. It's not a good idea if you're there when we bring him in."

"Booth, you can't keep telling me what to do here! This was my case too, and I--"

"Okay, easy," Booth interrupted. He should have known she would object to his protective instincts. "I guess you've earned it," he sighed. "I know we were partly joking about this, but…if you want to take a swing at him… I'm serious. If we want five minutes alone with him, I can arrange that. It's your choice."

Brennan didn't answer, and Angela held her breath.

"Bones? Do you understand?"

"Yes." There was another pause. She swallowed, then said, "I'll be there."

**

Angela had to practically chase her back up the stairs and into her office. Brennan had unbuttoned her lab coat on the way, and peeled it off. She had exchanged it for her regular coat, grabbed her bag, and gone back out her office door before Angela could get her wits about her.

"Whoa, sweetie--just hold on a second. Why don't I come with you. Or Cam?"

Brennan didn't stop, walking swiftly past the lab platform. "Zack," she said on her way, "if you get a chance, you could continue the analysis I started of two sets of remains down in modular skeletal storage."

"All right, Dr. Brennan."

Hodgins peered around his computer to gave Angela a look that said, 'what the hell?'

Before she could respond, Cam appeared. "Did I hear my name?" She saw Brennan striding for the exit. "What's the hurry?"

Angela looked from Cam to Hodgins, to Brennan's rapidly receding form. "Ah--" she said in defeat, "I didn't want to just let her go."

"Go where?" Zack asked. They were all looking at her expectantly.

Hodgins prodded, "I guess you found out what's going on?"

Angela took a breath. She explained, quickly, why they had both left Quantico. "And," she said, "Booth just called to say, they've got him. They've got that bastard Anders in custody right now, on the way to FBI headquarters."

"Well, _all right_," Cam exclaimed.

"Ha! Federal Bureau actually investigated something successfully," Hodgins crowed. "Large government entity scores a major point--with Booth's help, of course. So…" His grin faded somewhat. "Brennan's gone over there to beat up this scumbag?"

Angela shook her head, looking toward the door where Brennan had disappeared. "That's what I'm afraid of."

**

Brennan spent fifteen minutes pacing around Booth's office. They were about longest fifteen minutes she could remember. She wasn't even sure why she had come here, but told herself it was for evidence: tangible, seeing-is-believing evidence, that Anders had been arrested.

Finally, she went to station herself at the end of the hallway, down which she and Booth had personally escorted criminals toward interrogation rooms. She heard a security guard saying something into his radio, confirming that the suspects had arrived.

Brennan's heart was beating too fast. Her belly was sick with anxiety, but it had a dark, seething quality to it. Demanding not mere justice, but punishment, revenge.

Then, people appeared at the far end of the hallway. Booth and Fleming each held the elbow of a handcuffed man. Brennan knew instantly it was Anders, though she refrained from looking directly at him. Behind them, agents escorted two other men, presumably the flight crew from the plane Anders had hired. But they were unimportant.

She looked first at Booth: his familiar, confident stride down the corridor. His face wore a glower of satisfaction, but when he saw her, it changed. He didn't think she should be here, but understood why she had to be.

As they marched Anders closer, Brennan was glad her back was to the wall, so she could stand firm.

She forced herself to meet Anders' eyes.

It was a visceral reaction, of hatred and revulsion. It was like being there again, with the fear and the shame. His taunts, and the lust in his eyes. His saliva on her mouth, when he'd kissed her roughly. The way she'd felt his teeth behind his wet, probing tongue.

Anders saw her, and he smirked. "Well…" He drew out the word, blatantly raking her with his eyes. "Brought me back for more, huh, honey?"

Booth shoved him into the wall. His face and shoulder were crushed against the doorframe of the interview room. "Oops," Booth said viciously, "better watch where you're going, Anders." He and Fleming jerked the man back, and propelled him the rest of the way into the room.

After the criminal was seated, still handcuffed, before the table, Booth and Fleming went back into the hall.

Other members of the team who had brought Anders in were talking and making notes on a pad of paper. Booth spoke quietly to Fleming. "Why don't you take these agents for a cup of coffee. You know…give them a quick tour of the place." His eyes flicked to Brennan, waiting a short distance away. She looked like she'd been kicked in the stomach.

"Booth," Fleming said reluctantly. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yes," he answered. "I do." His eyes had gone murky and ominous. "Five minutes. That's all I need."

"All right," Fleming said. "Just... Don't do something that's going to get you fired. Or arrested."

Booth looked at Bones again. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her body practically hummed with tension.

"Yeah," he muttered. "It's not me you should be worried about."

The partners waited until Fleming turned to go, taking the other agents with him. They were alone in the corridor.

Booth went into the viewing room attached to the one in which Anders sat. He made sure it was deserted, and that all the surveillance equipment was switched off. Then he closed and locked the door.

Brennan stood in the hall, watching Booth. He was dressed in the same suit from yesterday, wrinkled, and without the tie.

He put his hand on the doorknob of the interrogation room, and she stepped forward. But she almost bumped into him when he blocked her with his body. Startled, she looked up.

"Bones…" They were standing very close, and he could see the darker blue that outlined the iris of her eyes. "I'd really rather you not go in there."

Now her eyes flashed with ire at his over-protectiveness, or else for the delay he was causing.

"I just--" his voice dropped. "I don't want this to hurt you more than it's going to hurt him."

The resolve on her face wavered, and her chin moved in a denying sort of motion. But her eyes burned into his; she did not look away.

"Okay," he relented. "Five minutes." Booth put his shoulder against the door, preparing to push it open. He glanced at Bones again, with a mix of sorrow and vengeance.

"Just let me make the first move. And remember…nothing that's gonna leave a mark." His eyebrow tried to arch, because he was one fraction joking, but also deadly serious.

Booth went into the room, carefully closing the door after Brennan. With this criminal, he didn't need to affect his stern, bad-cop expression--the scowl happened naturally. He went over to Anders and brusquely unlocked the handcuffs.

The man put his hands on the table and rubbed his wrists. "What's this?" he asked. "The part where the two of you gang up on me? And do what, exactly?"

Brennan had stayed by the door, while Booth stood around the corner of the table from Anders.

"Two against one?" he said, "that's just not fair."

"Yeah?" Booth shot back. "You think it was it _fair _when you have people tied up and held at gunpoint? Well," he spread out his hands, "no one's tied up now, Anders. And you don't have your faithful guard dog ready to subdue us with a gun or a sucker punch."

Anders was beginning to look nervous. He glanced at the two-way mirror, obviously wondering if anyone was watching.

"The walls are thick," Booth sneered. "No one's going to hear or see anything. And the security guys in _this _hallway answer to me."

Brennan glanced at Booth. He was exaggerating, of course--taunting Anders with his own words--but she was not about to argue.

Now Booth kept silent, waiting. Just long enough to make Anders sweat.

"So, what are you waiting for?" he asked. He pushed out of his chair, but kept it between himself and Booth.

"I'm waiting for you to take a swing at me first."

Anders almost laughed. "You expect me to be that stupid?" he scoffed. "That I'm going to willingly give you an excuse to hit back? You of all people should know, I didn't get this far by doing stupid things."

His eyes flickered to Brennan, but Booth took a step closer, to draw his attention back.

"Listen, Anders," he said dangerously, "I'm going to take a swing at you whether you provoke me or not. So this is it. Take your best shot."

Booth watched Anders stewing over that.

The man had grown a beard, probably to avoid detection, but everything else was the same. The slightly balding head. The over-confident way he carried himself. The indifferent blue eyes.

Now, as Booth stared threateningly at him, he saw, with grim victory, that wariness had finally replaced the smug attitude. Anders was not a fighter. He paid others to do the dirty work for him. But now, he was on his own.

Booth saw him come to that conclusion. His face formed a reluctant snarl. "All right then," Anders spat, and he feinted in one direction, then aimed a punch at Booth's face.

But Booth was ready for him, and dodged, so the blow merely glanced along his cheekbone.

Immediately, without giving Anders time to regroup, Booth socked him in the jaw. His head snapped back and he staggered. Again, before he could recover, Booth's fist belted into his gut. Anders hunched over, trying to get his breath.

Booth stepped back, shaking his arm. Bones was standing next to him now. They both watched Anders while he wheezed. It was, Booth thought, like looking at a car crash--where your worst enemy just totaled his vehicle. Compelling, disturbing, satisfying. His own mouth twisted with a harsh kind of pleasure.

Anders was still gasping, but squinting up a little to make sure he wasn't in more immediate danger.

Then Booth turned to Brennan. He tilted his head toward Anders. For once, she understood perfectly this nonverbal communication: _If you want to take a shot at him, go ahead. I've got your back_.

Booth watched her take another step forward, as Anders started to straighten up. She shifted into a karate stance, one fist raised, the other hand down at her side. She waited.

Anders was pissed, but--damn him--that arrogance was back. He was starting to smirk again, eying Bones. Underestimating her.

"So…" he said, "I know you did okay against my guy Rawling." Unconsciously, he moved his feet apart a little. "What have you got for me, hon--"

That was what Brennan had been waiting for. In a flash, she had shifted her weight, one knee drawn up, and her foot shot out, planting a perfect stomp kick right into Anders' crotch.

She stepped back, and he dropped to his knees, slowly keeling over onto his side. He curled up, groaning.

Brennan looked down at him on the floor. Some of her hair had fallen over her face, but Booth could see her expression. It was ferocious. She was breathing through bared teeth, her eyes wide enough to show white around the edges.

Oh, she wanted to hit him again. Smash her foot into his torso, right into the ribs. Or the kidneys, another vulnerable spot.

Booth wanted to let her. God knows Anders deserved worse. But it was too easy, he knew, to keep going, once you hit them when they're down. And he didn't want Bones to feel that…the sick thrill and pleasure. Especially not here, in this headquarters of federal law enforcement.

But he didn't need to worry, in the end.

Bones was still holding her fists at her sides. She watched Anders convulse weakly, and then, without a glance at Booth, she tore out of the room. She threw the door open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back. Booth heard her footsteps charging down the hall, and then a muffled exclamation, as though she had nearly plowed into someone.

He gave Anders one more contemptuous look, and left the room. In the corridor he found Caroline, looking flustered.

"God almighty," she cried when she saw Booth, "she almost ran me down, that scientist of yours."

Booth could have chuckled, although until now, the situation had been far from amusing.

"Sorry," he apologized on Brennan's behalf. "But this," he pointed at the interrogation room, "is a pretty good reason."

Caroline approached, and looked through the door that stood ajar.

"Is that him? Hunh." Her voice dripped with disdain.

By the way Anders was still crumpled on the floor, and by the way Brennan had hurled herself out of there, Caroline could deduce what had just happened.

"I'd give him a kick myself," she said. "If only I wasn't wearing my good shoes."

"Excuse me," Booth said, going past her. "I better go find Bones. Will you keep an eye on this guy?"

He started down the hall, but Caroline stopped him by saying, "Do you want me to go, cher? In case she's locked herself in the ladies' room or something?"

"What? No, I--" Booth hadn't thought of that. He gave Caroline a searching look. Did she think he should not handle this himself? But he had to go make sure Bones wasn't--that she was okay. He turned back in his original direction, telling Caroline, "I'll let you know."

"Booth," she called after him. "Just watch yourself. You make one wrong move… You never know, you could end up like this guy." She jerked her thumb at the door concealing Anders. Booth gulped, and nodded. He could never be entirely certain when Caroline was joking.

**

Leaving the interrogation room, Brennan wanted to run like she had at Quantico. Down stairs and corridors, straight out of the building. But that wouldn't work as well here, in a bustling workplace in the middle of the day, nor outside, with the downtown traffic. So her feet took her, out of habit, to the first secure place: Booth's office.

She slammed the door closed behind her, and went toward the windows on the right-hand wall. The chair in front of his desk was in her way, and she wrenched it aside hard enough that it tipped over, falling on its side with a thud.

Then she pawed at the blinds, praying that these weren't the sort of windows that did not open. Yanking the cord, she raised the blinds with a zipping sound. Government bureaucracy, she thought, worker bees enclosed in a hive--they could very well be locked in. But no--here was the catch. She flipped it, and slid the center panel aside. It let in a cold breeze and noise from the street below, of car motors and honking horns. Brennan wrapped her arms around herself and stood with her nose to the screen, breathing deeply.

She'd been close enough to Anders to catch what he smelled like. Cologne mingled faintly with cigarette smoke and sweat. And that, more than anything, had forced memories upon her with awful clarity.

She'd been splayed on the table like an animal to be devoured. Anders was behind her with his aggressive, fumbling hands. Her cheekbone crunched against the desk and she couldn't see what was happening, or when it was going to happen. Rawling had her forearms in a powerful grip, foiling attempts to break free. And he had watched everything, with his small, unresponsive eyes.

Brennan shivered, and watched a taxi drop someone at the curb below. She knew, of course, why smells seemed to instantaneously place you at the scene of a past event. Information from the olfactory system traveled not just to the sensory cortex, but directly to the limbic system as well--that primitive part of the brain having to do with memory and emotion. And smell was the most important sense, from an evolutionary perspective--it helped organisms identify safe food sources as opposed to poisonous ones.

But for once, scientific explanations did not help.

Brennan's muscles still quivered with more than the cold.

He's caught, she told herself. Anders is caught. So why am I…? Why are things still so unstable?

**

Booth was afraid Bones would be gone, having run back to the lab or who knows where, but he found her in his office. Cautiously, he entered.

He saw the overturned chair, and her coat, on the floor. She stood with crossed arms, right in the cold draft from the window. She was taking loud breaths of air, like she had on the way back from the suite, before demanding that he stop the car to let her out.

Booth closed the office door behind him.

"Bones," he said gently.

She turned her head. Angry tears shone in her eyes, and she looked defiant.

Booth realized she hadn't said one word since he'd arrived with the criminal in tow. He went to stand next to her. For a minute they looked out the window together, at the buildings across the street, and the trees lining the road below.

"Hey," he said, "can I close this? It's freezing."

She still didn't speak, but moved aside to give him access. He slid the window shut, then turned to her, but realized in doing so that he had backed her into the corner. His desk and chair made a barrier to her right, with the wall and window on the other side, and he was blocking the only way out. Hastily he stepped away. She couldn't hide the relief on her face, nor the impatience at her own reaction.

Finally she spoke. "You did it, Booth. Just like you said you would."

He shook his head. "I barely did anything."

"Yes, you did. All along you did. You and the other FBI."

"Yeah, but," he admitted, "this only half the crime-committing duo."

"The more important half." Her voice scratched.

Booth's eyebrows lowered intently. "Okay, we got the brains of the operation. But Rawling can't be that far behind. They traveled together up to a point. He's probably headed to Mexico too, so we might not even have to badger Anders to reveal anything. I mean, our guys are all over this case now--they could catch him today, for all we know."

Brennan ignored his optimism, mulling over something. "Booth. Would there be any… Are they going to make some deal with Anders? He cooperates, he gives us information about his drug contacts, and he gets a lighter sentence?"

"No, Bones." Booth's voice was low, but unyielding. "No lighter sentences. I won't let it happen. I don't think Caroline or Fleming would either. This guy has too many charges against him for the Bureau to start compromising."

Bones took another slow breath, and released it. She could, Booth thought, feel better about this one thing, at least.

But there was something different about her today. Was it her actual appearance, and not just her subdued attitude? He couldn't put his finger on it.

"Bones, you know what?" he asked. "None of this could have happened without you. You noticed Kazcmarek's military badge, when we went back to the inn. See, there _was _a point to us going there--and I knew Anders would do something stupid at some point. It just turns out he'd done it before even coming to D.C., giving some kid his travel information. But," he looked at her appreciatively, "it was you who got us started on this track. You and your sharp eye for detail."

Bones nodded, reluctantly accepting credit.

Booth realized what had been bothering him: She wasn't wearing any jewelry. No pretty silver earrings, no beaded necklaces. Just the butter-colored shirt with neatly creased lapels. The color turned her hair a richer chestnut brown.

"Hey," Booth said softly, "I'm sorry I had to leave you at Quantico."

She looked away, and he knew that was a bad sign. "Bones?" She was staring at his desk without seeing it.

He pressed on. "It was a lot of waiting around just like I thought, being all anxious, not knowing what was going to happen. We were hiding in a van among the luggage transport vehicles, waiting at this airport."

He and Bones each stood at one corner of the desk. She had one hand resting on its edge, pinching at a stack of papers there. But he definitely had her attention.

"We had to scrutinize every person that walked by," he said, "but finally… I might not be trained in the study of human movement like you are, but I knew it was him. Even from a long way off I knew. He was walking up to the plane, with probably that same damn suitcase he had in the suite. The tactical guys made me wait," Booth said with residual frustration, "until he was closer, so I could be sure, but once I gave them the ID, the team ran out and grabbed him. And… that was it. They cuffed him, and we got on another plane.

"But I will say this, Bones." His voice hardened, and he was again the sniper-trained FBI agent she had seen in the interview room. "It is a fucking shame he didn't resist arrest. If he'd been armed, then we could have shot him on the spot, and hopefully killed him."

Her jaw was tight, and she nodded, but her gaze had fallen back on the desk.

Booth paused, not sure what he was waiting for. He tried to lighten things up. "I barely got any sleep, if it makes you feel any better."

"Neither did I," she muttered.

"Bones," he said again. "Brennan…" Give me something to go on, here. Anything.

"I was worried about you!" she burst out. "I couldn't do anything, I just had to sit and wait! Just go back to the seminar like a good little student, and without--" She stopped to take a quick breath. "And then later, thinking all these irrational things, that maybe Anders would… That you would be…or that he might…" She shook her head, fighting tears now. But she refused to let them fall, or to give voice to the previous night's fears.

"It's okay, Bones," Booth said softly. He was strangely touched and surprised, how she had worried about him. "It worked out all right. Everyone is safe."

She was nodding and shaking her head at the same time. She knew this.

He wanted to ask her more about what had happened after he'd left her at Quantico, but she wasn't going to give him that chance.

"I have to get back to the lab," she said curtly. Brushing past him, she picked up her coat and pulled his keys from the pocket. "Here. I drove your car over, so you're all set for going home."

"Why don't you go home too?" He had taken the keys, and now gave them an enticing jingle. "I could give you a ride."

Bones was sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat, her face already telling him no.

"Hey, come on," he said. "Even you could do with an afternoon off, after this."

"No," she said, "I have to finish my analysis of the unknown soldiers from Limbo. But…" Seeing his face, she hesitated. "But I'll probably leave early, for karate."

"Yeah, that sounds good," he agreed. "Why don't we get a drink afterward?"

She looked uncertain.

"You know, Bones. Our typical partners-who-cracked-the-case celebratory alcohol. Except maybe 'celebrate' is too strong a word. Still, what do you say?" he pleaded. "Six or seven o'clock, my place, nice cold bottle of beer? Dinner too. I even have some food in the house you might want to eat."

A grin had crept across his face, but he thought sternly, Don't push. Don't try to charm her or persuade her. If she says no, that's it. But… he did not think she should be alone tonight. Even if _she _thought she wanted to be.

"Well…" she was considering his offer. "I suppose, after karate…about seven? Or seven-thirty, depending…"

"That's fine, Bones. You come whatever time you want, and I'll be there."

She nodded, and started to leave.

"Hey," he called. "One more thing. It's, um…" Booth ran a hand through his hair, suddenly averse to telling her. "Anders already lawyered up," he said quickly. "He's not talking. He made that clear before we'd even touched down in D.C. He even had the names of some high-powered attorneys he might want to defend him. Really expensive attorneys, and he probably has the money to pay them."

Brennan stood in the middle of his office, waiting. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her unbuttoned coat.

"But the point is…" Booth came a few steps closer to her. "We're going to confiscate his illegal funds as soon as possible, and then he'll only have about two bucks to his name. And in that case, he gets an appointed lawyer, and I will personally make sure," Booth punched his finger in the air for emphasis, "that he gets the absolute crappiest defense lawyer in the whole D.C. area. Or even the East coast."

Brennan's lips pursed at that, and she might, on another occasion, have smiled. "I'm not sure if you're being facetious," she said, "but he should have a good lawyer, Booth. We don't want to give him any grounds for appeal. The trial has to be as fair as possible. The charges, the evidence--they can speak for themselves."

Booth shrugged one shoulder, smiling weakly. "I know you're right, Bones. As usual."

She hesitated, not eager to leave just yet. Then she stuck out her hand. "Good work, Agent Booth." He thought he saw a tiny flicker of amusement behind the seriousness on her face.

He took her hand in his. He truly wanted to hug her instead, but given Caroline's warning, and his own instincts, he would not risk it.

"Same to you, Dr. Brennan." He gave her a forlorn sort of smile. "We got through this, right? We _are _getting through it. As partners."

"Partners," she affirmed.

Her fingers were slender and warm. His thumb could not help making a brief caress across the back of her hand.

Her eyebrows twitched, and she pulled her hand away.

Damn, he thought.

She was turning to leave. Collecting herself, pulling back behind her wall. Back to business at the lab.

"I'll see you later," she said. Then she opened the door, and waited for an agent to hurry past, before walking down the corridor and out of sight.

Booth realized he hadn't even offered her a ride back.

**

**A/N: **I was tempted to break this into two smaller chapters, but didn't want people going into cliffhanger shock. Thank me with detailed reviews. :)

Still, this angsty day is not over yet. Not by a long shot. And what do you think--Is Brennan going to crack? Do we want her to? (It's already written, I'm just toying with you--oops, I mean, curious. :)

I know I haven't been spelling Zach (Zack) the way they do on the show. Is it worse to change halfway through, or leave it? Not the most pressing literary issue to agonize over.

**Source:** To double check my facts, I looked at the essay "Smell and Memory" by Shigeyuki Ito, which can be found via this site: serendip dot brynmar dot edu.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Later in this section, I use breaks (**) to indicate a shift in point of view, rather than a shift in scene. Because there was too much juicy stuff to limit myself to one POV!

Have I tormented Brennan enough already? Oh dear. What can I say? I like turbulent. I like dark.

She'll get a respite, I promise. After the next chapter or two. Pleasure and pain, my friends. Pleasure and pain. (Sherri will get the KD reference :).

Reviewers gave mixed opinions about seeing her crack--with a few more FOR the angst. It all depends on your definition of 'cracking.' Read to find out…

**Part 25**

Back at the lab that afternoon, Brennan let Angela boss her around a little.

After making sure Brennan ate a solid lunch, the artist insisted that they move the Limbo skeletons up to the auxiliary lab room. There Angela set up her laptop on a table in the corner ("Because I want to be with my best friend right now," she had said, in a tone that brooked no argument).

While Angela worked on enhancing photographs, Brennan sought to identify the anonymous solider. Zack stopped by to contribute his opinion about several marks on the bones, and to begin sorting the remains of the next individual.

About mid-afternoon, Cam appeared in the doorway. She was holding a steaming mug in each hand. "Dr. Brennan," she said. "I have to attend a meeting in about half an hour, but I needed a coffee break first. Would you care to join me?"

Brennan could smell the coffee from across the room, and it was tempting. They went to her office. Seated on the couch, with their mugs on the table, they talked first about work.

Camille asked about identifying features on the soldiers from Limbo, and then told Brennan about the pathology textbook for which she was a technical advisor. "I guess I should be glad they asked me," she said. "But--damn, there were a lot of mistakes. I have to say, my opinion of the authors just took a little nosedive." She sipped her coffee, glancing around Brennan's office.

"So," she tried to sound casual, "Did you… I mean, Angela tells me you kicked that man where it hurts?"

Brennan had been staring at her own coffee mug, but she looked Cam in the eye. "Yes. I did."

"Good for you." Cam's voice was low and fierce. "That guy I briefly dated, who I told you about?" Brennan nodded; of course, she remembered the conversation. "I wish I could go back and do the same to him," Cam swore. "But I would have a lot less justification than you do."

They sat quietly for a moment. Cam wished she could think of something better to say. "At Quantico," she began, "I know they have these task force leaders and specialists… I wondered….did you think you might want to talk to one of the counselors? Because Sweets is fine, but…he's really just a kid."

Brennan did not have to answer. Her skepticism, even aversion, showed clearly on her face. "Okay--" Cam held up a hand. "I guess I should know better. Going to some stranger for therapy? Not if you don't believe in the process."

Both women sipped their coffee, and replaced the mugs on the table.

"You should've told me," Cam chided gently, "when I came down to Limbo this morning. I just thought--I don't know, Booth or the FBI had done something to tick you off, and… I didn't know it was something this big!" Her dark eyes regarded Brennan with concern, and a touch of guilt. "You need to tell your friends these things. Sooner rather than later, okay?"

Troubled lines creased Brennan's eyebrows. "I'm sorry," she said. "Angela tells me the same thing."

"Don't be sorry." Cam put a hand on her shoulder. "Just… try not to be so strong and silent all the time." She gave a tiny smile.

Then, to her surprise, Brennan threw her arms around her neck. "Oh--" Cam said. "All right. You're welcome." She hugged back, both startled and touched. This was a significant gesture, meant to convey something that Brennan couldn't put into words. But Cam noticed how tense she felt, especially her shoulder and trapezius muscles. That manic gleam in her eyes--it had still been there, as she'd studied bones this afternoon.

Camille didn't know if she could help, but she might has well try. Her arms gave an experimental squeeze. "Hey, it's okay," she murmured, but a second later, Brennan pulled away. Possibly, Cam thought, before she started crying. Definitely before she could receive any consolation.

"Thank you for the coffee," she was saying, getting to her feet. "I need to finish my analysis, before--I'm leaving a little early, for karate."

"All right," Cam agreed, but before she could say anything else, Brennan was gone.

******

That afternoon Booth had watched other agents interrogate Anders. It had been rather pointless, since the coward didn't want to talk without his lawyer. To avoid getting too pissed off, Booth returned to his office, where he ran through some paperwork, and placed a few phone calls. There was still plenty to do…like searching for Rawling, and finding out whether the charter plane employees had been in on any illegal schemes… but not today.

Booth drove back from the Bureau, and threw on running clothes. There was gravel trail not far from home, a loop that clocked about one mile around. It surrounded a park, with baseball and soccer fields, a playground, and a pond. As Booth jogged up to the start, he didn't see many people there--maybe it was too cold and cloudy.

He ran the first loop slowly, the second fast. By the third, dusk had fallen, but Booth was warmed up, and hardly needed the slower rest lap in between the fast ones. He ran up a slope, ducking a tree branch. His feet pounded out a rhythm, of words he'd been thinking all day: _He's in jail,_ _we've got him, we got him. _It drummed with vicious satisfaction, all the way around the circuit, until he arrived back at his front door, blowing like a racehorse and almost as victorious.

He showered, put on jeans and a sweater, then went to the kitchen to survey the food. It would have to be healthy, bland food that Brennan would like. He'd picked up some ready-made things the other day, since he'd been too busy to think about cooking. Luckily, he'd gotten one that might meet her standards: a mixture of rice, vegetables and shrimp. He read the directions, then put the package on the counter to thaw, until she arrived.

**

Toward the end of Brennan's karate class, they split up to do partner sparring, moving to the end of the room where mats covered the floor. The main goal was to practice blocks and take-downs; for serious blows and kicks, they used the heavy bags, or held striking pads for their partner to target.

Brennan had sparred once since her ribs had healed, but not against this opponent, Melissa, who was some five years younger and several inches shorter, but stocky and strong.

They traded blows for a few minutes. Brennan was tempted to try some of the moves the FBI woman had shown her, but decided it would be unfair, as they were unsanctioned by this martial art form.

Brennan also knew she was tired from her sleepless night, and it would slow her reflexes. But she was not concentrating like she should.

Seeing an opening, she shifted her weight onto her back foot, to aim a kick at her opponent. At that moment, the other woman hooked a foot behind Brennan's knee, pushing hard on her shoulder at the same time. Off balance, she fell to the mat, hard.

Flat on her back, for a second she could not breathe. She panicked, thinking she had injured her ribs again, and pain would stab into her if she tried to inflate her lungs. But then the breath flowed back without volition, and there was only a dull ache, on her torso and the back of her head, from impacting the floor.

Tears had come to her eyes, blurring the glaring lights overhead.

"Whoa, I'm sorry," her opponent was saying. "Are you okay?"

Melissa's silhouette leaned over her, quickly joined by the instructor, Dean Katahira, whose worried voice asked, "Temperance?"

She had only been lying there a few seconds, and started to sit up. "I'm fine," she told them. She was embarrassed, more shocked than hurt. But she still felt like crying. "I just experienced a brief spasm of the diaphragm caused by landing on the mat."

"What?" Melissa asked.

"Wind knocked out of her," Katahira explained. He knelt down next to Brennan. "Just take a second," he told her.

"No," she protested. "I'm fine." She knew he had seen the tears in her eyes, that she was rapidly trying to blink away.

"I didn't think that would actually work on you," Melissa was saying.

"Temperance," the instructor cautioned. "I'm serious. Just sit for a minute."

"No, I--I'll just get some water," Brennan said. She got up, letting them each take one of her arms, to help.

Retreating to a corner of the room, she took a drink from her bottle of water, and swiped at the few tears that had escaped. She would have to go right back and start another round, so she could redeem herself. And concentrate harder. But before she could return to square off with Melissa, Katahira called an end to the partner session. Class was nearly over; it was time for the concluding exercises, followed by a cool-down and stretch.

Brennan felt thwarted, and almost frantic to get back to the mock fight. But she glanced at Melissa and forced a smile. The other woman gave a friendly shrug and said, "You'll get me next time."

**

As Brennan was opening her locker after class, her cell phone began to ring from the pocket of her bag. It was Zack. "I'm sorry Dr. Brennan," he said in his usual swift style, "but I found a tiny bone spur that might be significant, and I thought you could take a look at it, because I didn't think I should wait until Monday, if--"

"Zack," she interrupted, "on whose remains?"

"The anonymous soldier you didn't get to finish examining today," he said. "Number--"

"No, I remember. A bone spur?"

"Yes. At least, that's what I'm calling it at the moment. It's on the inferior surface of the acromion process of the scapula, and it's not quite like anything I've seen before. I thought," Zack went on, "I had made an initial identification based on these records, but if this anomaly was the result of injury or disease, that casts doubt on my analysis. If you could take a look at it…"

Brennan almost asked him why it couldn't wait until tomorrow. This person had been dead for years, and it wasn't as if they had a murderer to catch. But Zack was like her: if he came upon a mystery, he would work until he solved it. She couldn't leave him hanging on this. Besides, if she didn't address it now, she might have to go to the lab tomorrow--and for once, she did not relish the idea of working on a weekend.

No, she thought, as she told Zack she would be right there--for now, all she wanted was to go home. Or rather, to Booth's apartment, as they had arranged. If she could relax, and not think… She would go and get drunk with Booth, take a cab home, and sleep late the next day.

Brennan didn't bother to change out of her karate uniform except to pull on a clean shirt, and then, when she arrived back to the Jeffersonian, her lab coat over it. She worried she would be late for Booth, now, but her conference with Zack was relatively quick.

"Yes…" she said, holding the scapula up to eye level to examine the spine that ran along its dorsal surface. "I've seen something similar before. It's probably just an abnormal bone growth, and this man never knew he had it." Still, to be on the safe side, she suggested several tests Zack could run, to rule out the possibility of disease.

Then Brennan got out her cell phone to call Booth, while Zack chattered on. "I was thinking of asking Dr. Saroyan, too," he said, "whether this mark would in any way interfere with the attachment or functioning of the muscles in this area, mainly the deltoid and infraspinatus." He was already setting up for the next analysis, fully absorbed in his task, and seemingly unaware that it was a Friday night.

Booth had quickly answered his phone, and offered to pick Brennan up from the lab. "No, it's no trouble," he said. "I was thinking I better go out and get some beer before you came, anyway. There's a couple in the fridge, but you know me, I like to stock up."

"But," she protested, "my car is here."

"Don't worry, Bones. I'll drive you wherever--tonight, or tomorrow morning--just leave it in the parking garage."

She sighed, agreeing. It would be easier. In fact, she was glad he offered. It was thoughtful--one more item on the lengthening list of things Booth did for her.

But, not long after she had settled next to him in the SUV, cases of his favorite beer stowed in the back, Brennan felt like crying again. She was watching the familiar scenery, the darkness scattered by city lights, and her eyes started to burn, her throat to close up.

This day had been so long, and it had tossed her about like a piece of driftwood. She needed to stop, to curl up somewhere out of the wind.

They were heading to Booth's apartment, and he was going to prepare them dinner. It was cozy enough there, and inviting, in its untailored way.

But she was desperate not to cry in front of him. Not because she doubted his ability to sympathize…perhaps even because of it. No, if she started to cry, here, with him, he would become all chivalrous and considerate. And somehow that would be worse. Because what good would it do? It would not change the fact that she would have to go home again, alone. It would not change the fact that she had to deal with this--whatever this was--on her own. Because that was how things worked.

Besides, she didn't want to ruin this 'celebratory' evening. It was traditional, that they as partners got together for alcohol after a difficult case. Once the bad guy was behind bars, they were supposed to unwind with food and informal conversation.

**

Booth had suspected she was fighting tears, but he supposed it could have been allergies or a sinus attack. Given all that dry air at the lab, or some irritating particulates within the heating system of his car. (Wait, _particulates_? Now he was thinking like a squint.)

His fears increased once they had entered his apartment. Bones shed her coat as she usually did, hanging it by the door. She was still wearing the white karate pants, with a v-neck shirt in a dusty rose color. That shade, Booth instantly noted, made her lips look amazing, and brought out the faint freckles across her nose. Not to mention--as she'd turned to hang up her coat--what that thin white fabric did for other areas of her body: snug at the hips and draping down her legs.

He cursed himself--he had to stop thinking like this. But when she brushed past him…she hadn't showered after class, and he could smell her skin, a pleasing musk, a hint of sweat. Tiny tendrils of hair curled at the sides of her face.

She was already heading through the living room when he called, "You want a beer to start? Or something stronger?"

"Beer's fine," she said in a choked voice, before hurrying down the hallway to shut herself in the bathroom.

Oh, crap.

He tried to tell himself it was nothing. Post-karate-class having to pee, right? He got out two beers, and popped off the caps. He rearranged the silverware and napkins on the table. Turning on a burner of the stove, he dumped the packaged meal into a pan, and covered it. Then he watched the stove's digital timer ticking off the minutes.

Bones was in there a long time. Too long, Booth thought, even for whatever female things he didn't need to know about.

He stirred the rice and vegetables, then added the packet of oil and the one of seasonings.

He waited another agonizing sixty seconds. Turning the burner off, he wondered if he was being stupid. But he had to go check on her.

Standing in the hallway outside the bathroom door, he listened. Did he hear her, breathing unevenly?

"Um, Bones? Are you okay?"

She didn't answer right away. He was about to call again, when she said, "Yes."

Her tone managed to convey that he was invading her privacy merely by standing on the other side of the door. It also told him something she had not wanted to convey: that she was definitely _not _okay.

"Well, are you ready to eat?" he said lamely. "I mean, I've got it ready when you are."

No response.

"Hey, come on, I've been slaving over the stove for ten whole minutes. The least you can do," he wheedled, "is come out and appreciate my efforts."

He waited. He had never paid so much attention to the whorls and knots in the wood grain of this door.

"Okay, Bones, give me something to go on here. You know, FBI regulations state that if you don't get a response after the second warning, you can break down the door."

"Booth--" Her tone now told him that he was being ridiculous.

"All right," he said. "I can just wait here. I don't have anything better to do…"

He shifted his feet. She _was _in there crying, he was sure of it. And he knew that she didn't like to cry in front of anyone…so maybe he should give her space? No, he simply couldn't. It would feel unnatural and wrong. Besides, she had been left alone enough in her life.

Booth was seriously considering settling down to wait: sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the door. He could just keep talking to her, whether or not she answered, until…

But then the doorknob turned. Bones came out, red-eyed, with wet lashes. She knew that _he _knew she'd been crying; there was no use denying it. But she was hoping he wouldn't mention it.

She gave him a wry smile. "Okay, I don't want to keep dinner waiting." Typical Bones, trying to shrug off the tears. Virtually begging him to ignore it. But he could not.

"Bones…" he said. "Please don't hide from me. Don't pretend things are fine, like you always say. 'Cause I can tell when they're not."

She bit her lip, and he knew she was angry with him--for not ignoring it, for being too caring.

Even after today, she was still trying to be brave and defiant. It cut him up.

Then she sighed, groping for an explanation. "I got knocked down in karate. But--"

"Are you okay?" he asked instinctively.

"Of course. There are mats. Well…" She had to be honest. "I've had a headache ever since."

"Do you want an aspirin or something?"

Brennan waved him away; that was unnecessary. "No. But, the karate--" It was merely the first thing that had come to her mind. "That wasn't…" she fumbled. "It's not…"

She didn't know what she was trying to say. But Booth did.

"That's not all," he said gently. "That's definitely not all."

Then he held his breath, because tears had filled her eyes. He could see her reaching for anger, and half expected her to chastise him for being too nice, like she had in the suite. Now she looked ready to stamp her foot, her expression clearly saying, 'Damn it, Booth, how do you do this to me? I don't want to feel this now!'

Brennan was clenching her teeth, holding herself rigid, and he wanted to break through that wall, to hold her.

Wait, he told himself. Don't grab her. If he acted too soon, she might run. Or hit him, or lock herself in the bathroom again.

But now her lip was trembling, and she looked down, away from him. The anger was crumpling; he could see it happening.

And that was when he reached for her.

**

It was his tenderness that undid her.

"That's not all," Booth said gently. "That's definitely not all."

Brennan saw the kindness and pain on his face--pain on her behalf--and it unstrung the tenuous hold she had on her emotions. Tears rushed back to her eyes.

Despite Booth's empathy, or because of it, Brennan held tightly to her anger. It was her last bit of solid ground on which to stand. If she let it go, she would have nothing. No energy, no courage, no logic.

But then, Booth reached out. She could not look at his face; and he didn't touch her, but he lifted his hand into the empty space between them. Open, offering.

She took a gasping breath, and stepped forward into his arms.

Burying her face against his shoulder, her arms came under his, to press against his back. He encircled her shoulders, solid and protective. He rested his cheek against her hair.

Brennan felt the weave of Booth's sweater along her face. He was so sturdy, his chest and shoulder supporting her; so warm and well-formed.

She suddenly missed the days when he would touch her without thinking. Lately he was so careful: always polite, never presumptuous. But those times when he would touch her, manhandle her, even, to hurry her where he wanted to go--whether to a crime scene, or away from an interview--any number of casual interactions within their partnership. His actions were comradely, authoritative.

Now, he was just gentle. And it was making her cry harder.

She had cried before now. Tears of pain and stress, on the day it happened. Out of fear, from a nightmare, or sudden flashbacks. But she had not cried this hard, where sobs forced their way up from somewhere deep inside, where trying to suppress them made it hard to breathe.

But she still suppressed them, or some of them. Others escaped, harshly, from her throat, though she pressed her face into Booth's shoulder. She grasped a fistful of his sweater, dug the fingers of her other hand into the muscles of his back.

He accepted all of it.

"Bones," he murmured. "Brennan. Temperance." As though he wanted to cover the full spectrum of their relationship, from teasing to intimacy. He was naming her, claiming and comforting at the same time.

Emotion never startled him, she thought through her tears. He was never put off by it, never tried to run like she did. He accepted these responses, without surprise or shame. And he reassured. During the search for her mother's murderer… in that barn that smelled of manure, they'd confronted the ex-con turned farmer, and he'd accused her father of killing her mother. Brennan had stumbled away, choking on her words as she tried to affirm her identity. But Booth…he had waited. He had stopped her when she couldn't go on. "I know who you are," he had said, and reached out to her.

Now, he held her so gently. Not because she was fragile--he knew she was strong--but because he cared. His hands touched her hair and cradled the back of her head. They pressed firmly on her shoulder, or stroked slowly over her scapula.

**

Booth held his partner, feeling the tension contained in her body. The attempts to cry silently were killing him. "Hey," he murmured. "It's okay, Bren. It's okay to cry."

Her cheek rested on his shoulder, where his sweater was wet from her tears. Her head was turned away from him, her hair tickling his neck and jaw.

If he held her long enough, tenderly enough, maybe he could undo some small part of what had been done. Maybe he could erase some of the hurt, touching his lips lightly to her hair. Maybe his hand on her back could cancel out the purposeful violence inflicted by those criminals. His fingers brushing her neck could sweep off their casual indifference.

She shuddered again, but didn't seem to be fighting so much anymore. He whispered to her, soothing, meaningless sounds. It was, he realized, giving back the comfort she had offered him, weeks ago at her apartment.

They leaned on each other in the shadowy hallway. To one side, the open bathroom door formed a rectangle of light. On the other side, slats of fainter light glowed through the window. And under it, the dusty radiator buzzed as it wafted its heat.

Booth's bedroom door was just behind them. Brennan shifted her weight, and her hips pressed briefly into his, returning to mere inches away.

God, he was hopeless. Because she was wearing only a thin shirt, and thinner karate pants. Her breasts were against his chest, and his hands on her back wanted to explore the enchanting heat of skin, the pattern of muscles and bones.

Get a grip, Seel, he berated himself. Here she is, your partner, crying well-deserved tears, because you finally caught the man who raped her--and all you can think about is that she's in some relative proximity to your bedroom?

He considered, instead, that she might be cold. Despite the radiator next to them, it was chilly in his apartment. He allowed one hand to travel to her lower back, and her skin seemed cool through the fabric. He would offer her a sweatshirt…as soon as she wasn't crying so much.

The sobs had eased, but she was sniffing wetly. Booth let go of her with one hand, long enough to dig his handkerchief out of his pocket. She took it, and he still held her, loosely, while she blew her nose. He rested his hands on her shoulders, keeping her within the circle of his arms.

Looking down at her, Booth said softly, "So, let me get this straight. Today you took down a murdering felon with a single well-placed kick…but someone gets the drop on you during _class_?" His voice teased lightly, full of skepticism.

She let out her breath in what passed for a laugh. "Well, when you put it like that…" Brennan could almost see the humor in it. With two simple sentences, Booth had taken some sting out of the day's events. But it had been more than his words, of course. His arms had helped quite a lot.

Brennan patted the handkerchief on her flushed, damp cheeks, but the fabric was sopped.

"Okay, you better keep that now," Booth said with mock horror. "Don't be giving it back to me."

She made another sound that was part laugh, part sob.

"Here," he said, releasing her and pushing the bathroom door fully open. "A whole box of Kleenex just for you." He gestured at the back of the toilet, but guessed she knew its location, if she'd already been in there crying.

Brennan went past him, stuffing the wet handkerchief into her pocket, and pulled a few tissues from the box. She sat down on the toilet lid to wipe her eyes.

But the tears were not stopping. She bent forward, elbows on her knees, and covered her face.

Booth leaned against the doorframe. He was worried, but not as worried as he would've been if she had pulled away from him in the hallway, when he had offered.

Then he heard her breath catch, and her shoulders tensed with a new wave of crying.

This time, she simply bowed her head and let it happen.

He moved closer, until his knee pressed into the side of hers. Softly he dropped his hand onto her bent head, and then her shoulder, patting slowly.

"I'm sorry." Her muffled voice came from behind her hands. "I can't--I didn't want--"

"Shh," he said. "You take as long as you need to." From his angle almost directly above her, he could see the side of her face shielded by her hand. There was a glistening streak on her knuckles, where she'd brushed at a tear, and it had trickled along her hand.

"I'd say…" He touched the spot. "…you're entitled to every one of these." His fingers lingered briefly on her hand, then stroked once along the side of her brow, and withdrew.

She ducked her head again, but he thought it was less to avoid him, and more because it was simply the safest position to be in. Keeping your head down was the way to ride out any number of crises: battlefield, hurricane, severe emotional distress.

After a few minutes, her tears slowed. Booth realized Brennan was leaning into him, her shoulder against his hip, and he didn't know if she had done so herself, or whether he had unconsciously pulled her to him, with his hand on her opposite shoulder.

She straightened up, and he moved back, to give her space. She twisted around to pluck new tissues from the box, then looked at him with puffy eyes and slightly blotchy skin.

"Now," she said dryly, "my headache is worse."

Booth chuckled. "That can happen. You sure you don't want to raid my medicine cabinet for something?"

Brennan shook her head. "How about…just beer. Food, but mainly beer."

"All right," he said approvingly. "That's my girl. Beer it is." He clapped one hand against the doorframe, ready to head back to the kitchen.

"Just--give me a minute here first." She wanted to clean up a bit, splash some water on her face.

"Okay, but…" Booth looked unconvinced. "Promise you won't lock the door again?" He raised his eyebrows into those little ridges she could never say no to.

"I promise."

**

**A/N: **I gave Brennan's karate teacher the name of an old college professor. Hope he wouldn't mind. To be honest, I just wanted an Asian name, without having to make one up. Is that totally non-PC?

Coming up in next chapters: more angst and comfort.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N:** That's right, this long day just keeps on going. More B/B moments!

After fudging my way through the first movie-watching scene at Bren's apartment (I don't know John Wayne), I finally got smart and picked a movie I _do _know.

**Part 26**

Dinner was a quiet affair. Booth was tired and hungry, and Bones had to be the same, if not worse off. But the food, and the beer, did have restorative properties.

He watched Brennan eat with good appetite, her eyes slowly losing their fog of fatigue. She was wearing the sweatshirt he had offered, a fleecy black zip-front thing. She had zipped it just to the neckline of her shirt, so that a slender V of pink showed beneath the black.

She jabbed her fork into the rice, spearing a plump piece of shrimp and lifting it to her lips. Booth reached for his beer again, telling himself he was watching her entirely too closely this evening.

Every once in a while, Bones would glance at him, and her bottomless eyes seemed pensive, contemplative.

He was scooping the last of the rice from the pot into his bowl, when she said, "I'm sorry you didn't get to be more active in this case. I know you hate that."

He felt anguish surface again, as he looked at her. _She _was considering _his _state of mind. Apologizing for _his _feeling badly.

"Bones, I'm fine."

Her clear gaze forced him to be completely honest. "Yeah, of course I wanted to do more. Especially," his eyes turned flinty, "in terms of punishment. And I know you wanted to do more, too. But…don't worry about me. I mean, the one guy is in jail. We did this by the book, and that has to be good enough."

She simply nodded, then poured more beer from the bottle into her glass.

Booth noticed again how plain she looked. Except that _plain _was completely the wrong word. More like bare, or undisguised. Whatever small amount of makeup she'd worn had been washed off, and she looked younger, more vulnerable.

The lack of jewelry earlier… She hadn't, with the stress of the day, bothered with any decoration. Or armor, if you wanted to look at it like that.

Now, he thought, it was just Bones. Pure and pared down. No shields or walls.

That, somehow, intensified his feelings of protectiveness. And gratitude. Because she'd let him in; just like the first time at her apartment, when he'd been the one in need of comfort.

Brennan was gazing out the window, her pupils dilating with the darkness. A car on the next street turned a corner, and its headlights swept across the blinds, making her blink.

Booth scraped the last of the sauce from his bowl, and licked the spoon.

He guessed there was more going on in that genius brain of hers, but she wasn't ready to articulate it just yet.

She had allowed him to console her, he reminded himself. The barriers were down, and that felt intimate and meaningful.

Booth had vowed this before, but he did it again: he swore that he would do whatever he had to, to protect her. He would do his absolute fucking best, no matter the situation, to never let the barbarians get past the gates and sack the temple. Not on his watch. Not ever again.

He knew he was being overly dramatic. But maybe… Just maybe he could help, so that she wouldn't have to build those walls back up, or keep reinforcing them so diligently.

**

They retired to the couch with the last of their beer, once again choosing the classic movie channel. _Gone With the Wind _had started almost two hours ago.

"Why do we keep missing the beginnings of things?" Booth wanted to know. "Wait, I take it back. Isn't this movie like five hours long?"

"Maybe with all the commercials," Brennan said. She was settling herself on the couch to his left.

"Have you actually seen it?"

"With Angela. But it was a long time ago. I read the book, in high school."

"Really?" Booth put his beer on the coffee table, then leaned back against the cushions. "I thought you were glued to the chemistry lab the whole time."

"It wasn't the sort of thing I usually read, and I don't actually remember why I did…but it was quite compelling."

**

On screen, Scarlett had just shot and killed the Yankee soldier who'd invaded her family home.

Booth gave a low chuckle. "She reminds me of you, there."

"What?" Brennan turned to look at him "When did I hide a pistol in my skirt and then blast someone's face off with no warning?"

"Not the exact scenario, Bones… I mean, her fire, her gumption. How she won't take shit from anybody."

Brennan knew he'd complimented her. Still, she wanted to rationalize the heroine's behavior. "She was protecting her home and family, Booth. And herself. He would have stolen from them, or raped them." She said it smoothly, but her eyes dropped away from his.

Booth looked at her a moment longer. "I know."

They watched Scarlett take Melanie's nightgown to mop up the soldier's blood. The slightly gruesome scene didn't seem to bother Brennan in the least. And why should it, Booth thought, when they had both seen a lot worse in real life?

"Well," she spoke again, "you're a bit like Rhett Butler."

"Oh, really?" Booth wanted to joke, but then his eyes darted nervously between Brennan and the screen. "You mean, the guy a few scenes back who kissed her forcibly and then left her on a dirt road in the middle of a war zone?"

"What? No," Bones said, "I was thinking more superficially."

"Oh. Well then, let me guess." Booth squinted thoughtfully. "Tall, dark, handsome… Not to mention devastatingly charming?"

"Well, yes. And somewhat dangerous, if provoked. But what I was going to say was that he puts that product in his hair to make it greasy and shiny."

"Greasy?" Booth gave her a look of mock outrage. "Hair product? Me?"

"Yes, didn't you use something like that when we first met?"

"Bones, I did not put stuff in my hair."

"I know what I saw, Booth," she insisted. "That could not have been natural glossiness."

He groaned. "Who do you think I am, Angela?"

"It's not something to be ashamed about. Wasn't your father a barber? It's only natural that you would know a number of products…" She trailed off. Were his eyes laughing at her?

"I may not be able to read people," she said, "but I _can _tell when you're teasing me." She gave his arm a tap of disapproval.

"Okay," he admitted, "so _maybe _I did use something on my hair. But not now. It was a phase."

Brennan's eyebrows arched doubtfully.

"What, you don't believe me? You want me to prove it to you? Here." He tilted his head toward her with an impish gleam in his eye, inviting her to touch his hair.

She did, leaning forward to ruffle her fingers through it.

He watched several expressions move across her face--curiosity, at first, and a trace of her analytical mode. But her eyes were playful, taking part in this impromptu game. She knew he was telling the truth; she didn't actually need to examine the 'evidence.'

But then something else happened. Her fingers slowed; they took their time. Her face had gone thoughtful again, and now, her fingers caressed. Feeling the texture of his hair as she stroked lightly up the back of his head, and then back down. Her thumb brushed along the curve of his ear, and her fingers tickled over it, inching toward his neck. It made him highly aware of the sensitive nerve endings attached to every little strand of hair.

God, didn't she realize what she was doing? He was getting chills.

Then--maybe catching the look on his face--she stopped. She gave him an awkward sort of smile, and was turning back to the TV, to give them both something else to focus on.

But before she could withdraw back to her own section of the couch, he moved. Without thought or hesitation, he put his arm around her. Lightly, along the top of the sofa, barely touching her shoulders.

Her response seemed just as instinctive: she stayed right where she was. She didn't freeze, didn't look at him with questions in her eyes. After a few seconds, in fact, she leaned into him, so that he could settle his arm around her for real. She nestled down, her right shoulder tucked against him, their hips touching.

They sat before the flickering light of the screen. Booth heard Bones take a deep, slow breath, and release it. He felt her shoulders lift, and relax. He felt her ribs expand, ribs that should be fully healed by now. On an x-ray, only traces would be visible. Only shadows of injury.

**

Scarlett was standing alone in a field, at sunset.

"It seems silly now," Brennan said. "But when I read this in high school, I was…kind of envious of her."

Scarlett's dress was tattered, and she had just clawed some paltry vegetable out of the ground, to eat with the dirt still on it.

Booth looked sideways at his partner, still resting under his draping arm.

This, his gut told him, was big. Out of nowhere, Bones was volunteering something from her past.

"I mean, here she's starving, and there's a war going on, and her parents have died…" Her voice was husky; she continued looking at the screen, not at Booth.

"But I understood something about it. It was survival. And in a way, her situation made more sense. It was clear cut; it was war and poverty, and at least she knew why her parents were no longer there--because of illness, or a horse-riding accident. Those things are tangible, and there are logical reasons behind them. They're challenges you can understand, even if other things--the hardship and suffering--even if they don't make sense."

Booth had nothing he could say. Instead of speaking, he cupped his hand on her upper arm, pressing her a bit closer against him. He wished he could have done the same for her years ago, when she had no one.

"Do you know," Brennan continued softly, "she was only supposed to be about sixteen when the book started? And later… It took her a while to realize it, but...she always knew where her home was. She always knew where she belonged."

"Hey," Booth said, and he wasn't thinking again, just reacting to the desolation he had heard. "Wherever your squints are, and I am, that's where you belong." He squeezed her shoulders again. "You're not lost. You're right here."

This time she looked at him. She seemed more surprised than anything, her brows slightly furrowed, her eyes searching his. She was trying to get a handle on what he'd said, and why, and what it meant.

He'd better say something else before she got too far in her analysis. Maybe he should retreat a little from that very naked statement.

"I don't know about Georgia or wherever in the 1860s," he told her, "but I say that you and me, right now, we belong right here. With TV," he waved the remote, "and beer."

She smiled, as he'd hoped she would. But his words had been too candid for her to forget, and when he turned back to the movie, he could feel her eyes on him.

**

Brennan snuggled under Booth's arm, and thought that perhaps she had been wrong. Wrong about what she had thought in his car on the drive over here. Wrong about what she had thought for the majority of her life: that she had to handle everything on her own.

She would continue to gather evidence. But a number of points no longer supported her hypothesis. She might have to revise her premise, if it no longer fit the available data. And right now, some of the data was pretty persuasive.

One case in point: Booth, telling her, _There's more than one kind of family._

Another point: _I've got your back, if you want to take a shot at him._

And a third: _It's okay, Bren. It's okay to cry._

**

Bones didn't stay in his arms for the whole movie. She got up to take off the sweatshirt, and to use the bathroom. When she returned, she was more conscious of where she sat down. It was a modest distance away from him, though not an extreme one.

In this scene of the apparently endless movie, Scarlett was faking tears to get Ashley Wilkes to do something for her.

"Booth," Brennan said slowly. "Why did… why did I cry more now than before?" She had pulled a pillow onto her lap, and clutched it self-consciously. But she wanted to know, and trusted him to answer honestly, with the benefit of his intuitive understanding. "Why today," she repeated, "when things are that much closer to being resolved?"

Booth thought seriously about it. "I guess that… relief can be worse than pain and fear." He sat up straighter on the couch. "Because with those, you're all tight--you know, your muscles ready to deal with whatever it is. But relief--the hard shit is over, and you just go limp. You feel everything a lot more."

He leaned forward and absently fingered the remote lying on the coffee table. This, he guessed, was one of the things Bones had been mulling over during dinner. The movie just provided an opportunity to mention it.

"It's like, if a window falls on your hand while you're trying to close it," he said. "It hurts, yeah, but you're more in shock. You're toughing it out, while your friends are trying to get the window unstuck. It's only when you get free that it really hurts." He turned his head to look at her. "When you _remove _the source of the pain."

He saw that Brennan understood. Her eyes looked more green, now. And they showed equal parts hurt and knowledge.

Still, she turned to science. "That phenomenon," she said, "is probably caused by the nerves and blood flow being compressed by the weight of the window, and once the circulation is restored--"

"Just go with me on this, Bones, okay?" He knew she had already accepted his idea, but they were falling back to their comfortable, slightly combative roles.

She played her part, cocking her head to one side. "Yes. I can see the parallels of that analogy."

They gazed back at the screen, where women swished along in hoop skirts.

"Booth." Brennan spoke softly. "The source of the pain might be gone, but… Why don't I feel better? Now that Anders is caught?"

He knew it was costing her a lot to ask, and he answered just as softly.

"It's like anything else, Bones. The window falling on your hand--once you get it open, you're still injured. You still need time to heal. You know," he attempted a smile, "all the bones and muscles in the hand that you could tell me about."

Her eyebrows were pulled into the tense lines Booth had seen far too often lately.

"He's in jail," Bones repeated to herself. "And of course it's a relief. I'm glad he can't hurt anyone else. But…"

"But he can still hurt you," Booth said. "Here." He tapped his forehead. "And here." He touched his heart. (He wanted, but didn't quite dare, to touch those places on _her_.)

As with his window analogy, he saw it hit home. Her eyelashes trembled. But again, she turned to logic, making a desultory effort to debunk his claims.

"The heart is not really the place where…"

"I know. Metaphorical heart, Bones."

**

A few scenes later, Brennan was burrowed down on the couch, looking sleepy. "Hey," she said in a croaky voice, "Aren't you going to do any impressions?" She gestured at Clark Gable on the screen. "I bet you'd be as good with him as with John Wayne."

Ordinarily, Booth would have been happy to oblige. He would have been thrilled if he could make her laugh again. However…

"You know, I would," he lied, "but I'd probably need a few more beers in me, to loosen up first. Besides, it's more fun if the guy's not such a good actor. And Gable is better than John Wayne."

Bones seemed to accept his reasoning, and turned back to the movie.

Close save, Booth thought. Because there was no way he was going to repeat some of the lines from this movie, with its tragic/romantic characters.

Lines like, _You need kissing, badly, and by someone who knows how._

Or even, _I'd like to think our child was you, before poverty and the war had done things to her._

No, no. If those words came out of his mouth, they would not be funny. They would be sincere. And they would break open too many dangerous possibilities.


	27. Chapter 27

**Forgotten author's note from last chapter:** Brennan was right to suggest that she and Booth are only superficially like Scarlett and Rhett from GWTW. B&B have their own hero streak. Consider these lines from Rhett on p.383 of Margaret Mitchell's tome. Can you imagine Booth saying this? "I love you, Scarlett, because we are so much alike, renegades, both of us, dear, and selfish rascals. Neither of us cares a rap if the whole world goes to pot, so long as we are safe and comfortable."

**A/N this chapter: **I wrote this section in advance of the few chapters that came before, so I didn't quite realize how long this evening would turn out to be! I started getting nervous that this would be too dramatic and victim-ish…but the potential was too good to ignore. (Hey, if we can survive this one, the rest of the story will be a piece of cake.)

I got the idea for this section from a nonfiction book. Please see my end note for the citation.

**Part 27**

Booth woke from a doze. He'd been hearing voices, but couldn't tell what the conversation was about. Oh--the TV was still on. Their film had ended, and the channel was showing clips from Katharine Hepburn movies. Booth glanced at Bones next to him, and found her fast asleep. He sat up, stretching and yawning. Then he clicked off the TV, and looked back to his partner.

Her face was turned toward him, her chin tucked down by her shoulder. She was breathing slowly and deeply, her face completely relaxed. One lock of hair curled on her cheek. Booth realized he had almost never gotten to watch her sleep, and it filled him with such a sense of tenderness and intimacy, he could hardly stand it.

He'd better wake her up. He hated to do it; she was clearly wiped out from the turmoil of the day. But if she slept here, she'd have a terrible crick in her neck. And she might wake up later not knowing where she was. The other option--make a move to carry her to the guest room--simply wasn't smart. No, going to grab her might put him on the receiving end of her killer karate instincts.

He whispered, "Bones?" but there was no response. She had her right arm resting across her stomach, so he tapped her forearm with his fingers. She stirred, but did not wake up.

Then Booth closed his hand on her arm and jostled it.

She bolted upright, inhaling a panicked gasp of air. He reeled back, almost falling off the sofa.

"What--!" Her arms were braced on the cushions, chest heaving. She blinked in the dim room, trying to orient herself. "What happened?" Her eyes found him, wide with fear, and more than a little accusation.

"I just touched your arm to wake you up. That's all." Booth's voice squeaked. "I didn't want you sleeping all crooked on the couch."

"I thought--" She stared, stricken, at the air in front of her. "The criminals were _right there_. It was--it was--"

God, she was actually trembling. He had to do more to reassure her.

"You're okay, Bones. I promise. It's just you and me in here. We dozed off during the movie. I guess it was that long, huh?"

His comment barely registered. She was already calming herself, consciously slowing her breathing. She put a hand up to her face, ostensibly to brush hair from her eyes, but partly to shield herself from his gaze.

Even before her breathing had returned to normal, she was analyzing the possible causes.

"It wasn't a bad dream," she said. "I wasn't dreaming at all. I just--"

She down looked at her arm where he had touched her. Then her expression turned sick, and Booth understood at the same moment she did.

"Is that…" He didn't want to ask. "…where one of them grabbed you?"

She nodded, not looking at him.

"Shit." Booth hung his head. "I'm sorry, Bones. I knew I shouldn't have let you come in there today." He felt queasy, aghast at himself for causing this.

"You couldn't have stopped me," she said rebelliously. "I can go wherever I please."

He knew better than to argue at a time like this. "It's okay, Bones. It's only natural for something… I mean, you did see Anders today. That's sure to cause…"

She was still holding her arm out stiffly, like it was injured, or it belonged to someone else.

Then she gave him a look that churned with so many things, he could hardly name each expression. Bleak, desperate, humiliated. Embittered, and angry--at herself, at the power the criminals still had over her. "Why?" she demanded. "Why does this keep happening?"

Booth tried to speak calmly, though he was instantly on the alert. "It's happened before?"

"Well, no. But--similar." She thought of Zack bumping into her at the lab, and her meltdown in the karate studio.

"This is just like the clichés tell you," she growled, "that I can't--that women can't handle this. That we're too fragile, we can't get over it, that we can't even go out in public, for fear our 'issues' will be triggered."

"Bones…we're hardly out in public. We're in my apartment at eleven o'clock at night. You were sleeping, okay? Give yourself a break."

"But the other times…"

"That's not how it is," he pressed on. "Not with you. You've always been such a stoic. I don't think you're any different now." He gave her a smile, but she didn't respond to it.

"I still don't understand," she said. "Yes, we saw one of them today. But it was Rawling, who grabbed my arm like that. Not Anders." She wiped impatiently at her eyes.

"Well, I don't think it makes much difference to the nerve cells, right?" Booth asked gently. "To muscle memory?"

She seemed to accept his version of physiological responses.

"I mean…" He studied her. "The body doesn't think. Some things, it just knows."

When she met his eyes, she thought she saw something kindle beneath the melancholy. Something…crackling. For a second, she couldn't look away. But surely, his comment applied merely to the fight-or-flight kind of instinct. She jerked her gaze down.

Booth watched her ponder his words. He was still keeping a careful eye on her, trying not to be too obvious about it. Because he could imagine how he would feel if someone caught him in a panic attack: self-conscious and vulnerable.

He couldn't have blamed her if she'd bolted from the apartment, even after their earlier closeness. The fact she was staying showed her trust in him, and her own stubborn courage. She wasn't fleeing the emotions; she was staying with him, trying to work through it. He just prayed he was worthy.

But letting him see that rawness did bother her, he could tell; especially if he looked at her too long: the way she kept her shoulders slightly hunched, and did not turn to face him when she spoke.

So Booth averted his eyes, stifling a sigh. It turned quickly into a yawn. His limbs felt heavy, his eyeballs fuzzy. But he was too worried about his partner to think about sleep.

He was still sitting on the far end of the sofa from Brennan, keeping his body angled toward her. She perched on the edge of the seat, staring unseeing at his coffee table, which was scattered with their empty beer bottles and a couple sports magazines.

Booth noted that her hair was slightly mussed from sleeping. He glanced away, at the blinds covering the windows behind them. Tried not to notice how the indirect light brought out red-brown glints in her hair. Tried not to appreciate her perfectly shaped lips, in profile.

She had been thinking, and now she came to a decision. She was still holding her arm away from her, like it was contaminated. Her jaw hardened with that Brennan determination.

She said, "Do that again."

"What?"

"Do that again." Her voice quavered, but her eyes were steady. She shifted to the center of the couch, within easy reach. Then she held her arm out, making a fist. "Now that I know, I can be ready for it. I can…" She shook her head, as if she could rid herself of the memories through sheer will power. "Make it go away," she hissed. Booth couldn't tell whether she was expressing her own determination, or begging for his help.

"Bones…"

No! he thought. Don't ask me to do that. Playing the part of her attackers, so she could--what? Exorcise them from her mind?

He hesitated, but her single-minded resolve bored into him: eyes like liquid crystal. Could she be right, that he had to hurt her in order to help?

Hating himself, hating the criminals, he closed his fingers over her arm, hard.

His hand was large enough to completely encircle it, and he could feel the firm delineation of her muscles as she clenched her fist.

Brennan doubted whether this would really have an effect. As Booth gripped her arm, she thought, I'm being silly. Nothing will happen, not now that I'm awake, and rational, and expecting it. She looked at his hand on her. There, see, it was merely a one-time--

Then, without thought, Rawling had her.

She gave a grunt of shock, like the wind had been knocked out of her. It sounded, to Booth, of disbelief and despair.

Brennan squeezed her eyes shut. Rawling, at one end of the table, yanked her bound wrists above her head. The rope was cutting off the circulation in her hands, and her fingers tingled. Rawling's motions were practiced, with cruel efficiency: bending and stretching her over the desk, its sharp edge pressed into her hips. Behind her, Anders hovered.

She could hear nothing but his heavy breathing, and her own panicked gasps.

She knew what was going to happen. Yet a part of her brain could not believe it, sure that something would intervene. Maybe Anders would back off, saying he'd just been bluffing; they'd only wanted to scare her. Or Booth would magically get free and burst in with reinforcements. Or, somehow, she'd be able wriggle away--even as Rawling mashed her face against the desk, his other hand bruising her arm with the strength of its grip.

Because this couldn't be happening. Even after the threats, the gun barrels staring her in the face…the sadistic hints and harsh blows, one that had cut her lip so that it stung, and trickled the metal tang of blood into her mouth. She still didn't believe it, not until she heard Anders undo his zipper, crowding hard against her; not until the intensity of the pain blotted everything else from her mind.

**

Booth watched his partner panting in fear. Tears leaked out from her tightly closed eyes, her forearm locked in his reluctant grasp.

He couldn't watch her go through this. The pain he had inflicted, or at least initiated--he wanted to stop. He wanted to crush her in his arms.

But she gritted, "Don't let go." As if predicting his timidity, and demanding they see this through. That was his Bones--tenacious. But he heard, too, a pleading: _tell me you're here_. While she rode out this gale of memories, he could be her tether. He hadn't gotten to where he'd been in the military--a sniper, after all--without knowing something about trigger points and post-traumatic stress. Brennan could only go through this alone, but he was here, as the best support he could be. "Bones," he said. "Brennan. I've got you. I won't let go. I've got you."

He heard her breathing in and out, her eyes still closed. He didn't know what was going on behind her eyes--how bad it was--but he could imagine. Hell, he hadn't been able to _not _imagine since the day it happened.

**

After those first horrible moments, the flashback had loosened its grip. Brennan pushed it back with all her might. And Booth's voice--_Bones, I've got you_--gave her additional force.

His touch had catalyzed this trauma, but now it was a tactile reminder, squeezing her arm with steady pressure. Not Rawling's hand, trying to hurt her. Booth's, trying to help.

She opened her eyes, though it took a few seconds before she actually saw her surroundings. The criminals had receded. It was just him, and her, sitting in his dim-lit apartment. She looked at his hand grasping her forearm.

"I won't let go," Booth said softly, "unless you tell me."

Slowly, she uncurled her fingers from their balled-up position. Still looking down at his hand, she swallowed. Then she said, "Harder." It was a test, before concluding this experiment.

Booth's mouth tightened, but he did as she asked.

He watched her face remain steady, though he had to be hurting her at this point. He could feel the bones--the ulna and radius--under her skin and muscles.

She was breathing more evenly now, but hadn't met his eyes. Without speaking, she turned her wrist over. He felt the bones rotate, and instinctively loosened his grip.

With her other hand, she pulled his fingers away from her arm, and placed his hand into the palm of her right. Her left hand held his fingers open, keeping them from holding on. She traced over his knuckles, then brushed the pads of his fingers. Examining, but tenderly.

His hand was very pleasing to look at, Brennan thought, and to touch. Infinitely more attractive than Rawling's. There was simply no comparison.

Her fingers felt the calluses on Booth's palm. They were probably the result of weight training, while the fainter ones, on his metacarpal-phalangeal joints, were from boxing.

Humans, she mused, were capable of great gentleness, and great violence. With hands like this.

Rawling and Anders made the wrong choices. Booth made all the right ones.

She saw he had left a wide bracelet of redness on her skin. She did not care, if they were Booth's marks.

**

"Do you want me to drive you home?" he asked. "Or would you be more comfortable staying here?"

They were still sitting side by side on the sofa, almost dozing again. Heads lolling against the backrest, hands resting close together on the seat cushions. Close enough that they could feel the heat of the other's arm.

"No," she groaned, "I'm too exhausted to move. Here is fine."

"Well, not _here_," Booth corrected. "This couch is no good for sleeping on. That's how we got into trouble in the first place. Me having to wake you up, and… save you from getting your cervical vertebrae all out of alignment."

She rolled her head around to look at him. "You know the correct terms, even this late at night? I'm impressed."

He grinned tiredly. "I'm full of surprises."

They started to pull themselves off the couch. "My spare room's not as nice as yours," Booth said, "but you're welcome to it."

Brennan wasn't listening; she was sitting with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at her arm where he had held on to it. "I still don't accept that," she said, as though resuming their earlier conversation. "Similar contexts as a reason for…this?"

Booth sat back down. Here it was, approaching midnight, and Brennan was still analytical.

"The fight-or-flight response," she said in the slow, deliberate tones of someone thinking aloud, "is designed to protect the organism from danger. But there isn't any danger. The circumstances leading up to the attack are not likely to repeat, and the criminals are in custody, or on the run." She looked at Booth. "It's not like they're waiting out in your hallway for the chance to get us."

He shook his head. "Why does any post-traumatic stress happen, Bones? It doesn't have to make rational sense."

"But it does! It--" She gave a frustrated sigh. Booth knew they were both tired, drained by the demanding day, and going on a sleepless night beforehand.

"My brain," Brennan said stubbornly, "doesn't need to remind me of what happened. But it keeps doing it."

She wanted this to make sense. She wanted to locate some logical reason, like she always did, underlying the apparent chaos of everyday life.

"Well…" Booth said, and something came together in his mind. "Until today, there _was _a slight chance Anders would come back." Brennan looked uncomfortable, wanting to deny that she had harbored such a fear. "That's not rational, I know," he said, "but the possibility existed."

"So…?"

"So, you're right. Those instincts are there for a reason. They're meant keep you safe. I think…the body goes on high alert, to make sure you get to a secure location. To prevent something bad from…happening again."

"Fear is useful," Brennan said softly. "It's protective."

Booth nodded in sad agreement. He said, "They're not coming back, Bones. This _is _a safe location."

"I know."

Even if she didn't think she needed to hear it, he was going to say it.

"Anders is behind bars, and he is not getting out. And we're going to get Rawling."

He saw an unexpected ferocity flare in her eyes.

"If," she said, "if that had been some kind of plan, the two of them luring you to California, while I was stuck here… If Anders had managed to hurt you, after what he's already done--I would not have hesitated. I would have shot him on sight." Her voice was low, with reined-in rage. Booth believed her.

"Now," he said very quietly, "do you know how I feel?"

He looked her in the eye, and what she saw made her freeze.

She blinked, somehow feeling safe and afraid at the same time. _If you had been hurt, after what they've already done… _

"I did know," she whispered. "I do."

She gazed at him with another profound mix of emotions, but they were simpler this time: trust, heartache, exhaustion. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she murmured. "Let's go to bed now."

They got up, and walked down the hall to their separate rooms. Booth guided her, very lightly, with his hand behind her shoulder. He said goodnight, and waited until Brennan had closed her door. Trying all the while not to hear her unintended implication, _Let's _go to bed now, together.

**

**Source and A/N: **I got the idea for this section after skimming the following book:

--Winkler, Cathy. _One Night: Realities of Rape_. Walnut Creek: 2002.

A woman told a story like this, where she woke up in full panic-mode, and realized that her dog had hit her ankle, at the same spot her attacker had. Also, I borrowed some analysis of the event, about fear being protective.

Up next: we do get back to some actual plot, after all this emotional stuff. :)


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:** After the demanding drama of the last three or four chapters, I came down with a mild case of writer's block (I know what needs to happen, it's just the how and when that can be tricky). But it seems to be gone now. So I hope to keep to a once-a-week posting schedule.

**Part 28**

The next morning, Booth invited Brennan to come to Parker's soccer game. "It's one of the last of the season," he said, whisking scrambled eggs at the stove. Brennan sat at the small table near the window, paging through a newspaper. She was wearing the same rose-colored shirt, with the (slightly wrinkled) slacks she'd worn at the Hoover the day before. Booth would now forever think of those as the Anders-ass-kicking pants.

"They've canceled a few games," he explained, "because it's been so wet, but it looks like nice weather today. And not too cold, at least not for the players, because sitting on the sidelines _can _be pretty cold." He reached for some pepper, and sprinkled it over the nearly-done eggs.

Booth had slept lightly, despite his fatigue, half listening for any sounds from the other room. Sounds of distress, of nightmares. He would've been ready to jump into action with more reassuring words, or--he had to admit it--hugs that went beyond 'guy hugs.' But his support was not needed. He did hear Bones get up, and water running in the bathroom pipes…then silence once she'd returned to bed.

Booth had already started breakfast by the time she got to the kitchen.

"Sleep okay?" he had asked.

"Yes. Better than I might have expected." After, Booth thought, the events of the last two days.

Now, as he offered her some fruit and a serving of eggs, she told him she would be happy to go to Parker's game.

Booth sat down at the table and began chewing a mouthful of eggs. They were a bit overdone, he thought, but at least this combination of spices was pretty good.

He watched Brennan, just as he had last night. "Bones?" he said after a minute. "How are you, really?"

She had been slicing an apple, and put the knife down. She thought about it.

"It's too soon to really tell, but I think…better. Maybe a lot better."

Now she was looking carefully at him. "What about you?"

"Me? Well…" He glanced out the window at the weak sunshine. "I'd have to give the same answer. Votes aren't all in, but…pretty good, considering."

Her eyes continued to gauge him. "I really scared you last night, didn't I?"

His shoulders sagged. "Shit, Bones. Yeah. Did you see me just about fall off the couch, when you jerked awake like that?" He tried to make a joke out of it.

"I'm sorry. But you don't have to worry so much." Her eyes narrowed, with a kind of diagnostic thoughtfulness he had seen before. "I mean… Isn't there a saying, 'sometimes the only way out is through?'"

"And…you feel like you're out of the woods, or wherever?"

Bones nodded cautiously.

She glanced down at the folded newspaper on the table. "Now I'd like to say something amusing, to counteract the seriousness. But that's more your department."

He could smile now, with relief. "Oh, yeah? I'm just here to amuse, is that it?"

She shook her head at him. "No, you're also here to explain things to me that I don't understand."

He raised his eyebrows. Bones, the squint, needing explanations?

"Such as, metaphorical heart things."

Her eyes were more blue today, he noticed. Like (to think in clichés) the sea after a storm.

She bit into a slice of apple. "I mean, I might have figured out all that stuff…why I was feeling the way I was… But it probably would've taken me a week."

"Ah," Booth said, "so I'm a time-saver as well as a source of amusement."

Now her eyes gave him a sparkle, and it was the best thanks he could have.

**

A couple hours later, they were sitting side by side on metal bleachers in the pale sunlight, cheering for Parker. Bones cheered, too, which Booth found strangely touching. After Parker had made a particularly good pass to a teammate, Booth would yell, "Nice one, atta boy!" And when he planted his foot into the ball, sending it straight into a corner of the net, Bones joined in with "Way to go, Parker!"

She was thinking, just then, how much he reminded her of Booth. Not just the similarities in build that the boy had inherited, but his expression: that look of fierce concentration while driving toward the goal. How he dodged challengers, but wasn't afraid to get rough if the situation called for it.

She glanced at Booth when she didn't think he would notice. She had not forgotten her theory from last night--how it needed further testing. The daunting questions to resolve were, how alone am I, really? Who can be counted on to be here, and to stay? This process of inquiry might be a difficult one. But she was good at observing and at analyzing patterns.

**

Rebecca had been sitting a short distance away, and when the game ended, she and Booth went to her car to retriever Parker's overnight bag, for spending the weekend with his dad. Brennan wandered around the field, half listening to the coaches' parting comments to their teams. She glanced over at Booth and Rebecca, conversing next to his truck, both frowning.

Once Rebecca had stepped away, to say goodbye to Parker, Brennan joined Booth by the car.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"Yeah." Booth had buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I was just telling her about catching Anders. Because after the first time, she made me swear to keep her updated. She tends to get mad if I take any risks or run off without prior warning."

"I know," Brennan said, "how she feels."

**

Moments later, Parker was chattering about the game from the backseat of the truck. "You cheered for me too, Bones!"

"Sure I did." She twisted around to smile at him. "I know excellent playing when I see it."

"That's Dr. Brennan to you, pal," Booth corrected.

"No," she told them, "I don't mind."

"So, we're taking you to the Jeffersonian first," Booth said, "to get your car. Then Parker and I are going out to lunch."

"The diner?" Parker asked.

"Sure, bud. If that's where you want to go. And," he looked at Bones, "you're welcome to come too. You know, make sure we eat something slightly healthy, instead of just…"

"Hamburgers!" Parker decided.

"Thanks," Brennan said. "But I should get back." She was quiet for a few more blocks, until Booth pulled up to the curb outside the lab's main entrance.

Then she looked at him. "Thank you," she said, hoping to convey layers of meaning in a simple statement. "Really. I..." With Parker in the back, she did not want to speak more plainly, even if she could have found the appropriate words. But Booth could read her; he always could.

"You're welcome, Bones." His eyes regarded her, gently. "Anytime."

Then he made a big show of unlocking the doors, and picking up Brennan's bag for her, from the floor under the dash.

"Okay, now, you better promise to not physically go _in _the lab," he ordered, "just the parking garage. Right, Bones? 'Cause it's _Saturday_."

She had gotten out of the car, and gave him a look of mild exasperation.

Parker decided to jump in on his dad's behalf. "Do you promise, Bones?"

He was earnest and cute and just slightly mischievous, like his father. Brennan wanted to roll her eyes--now she was getting this from _two _Booths?--but she had to smile. "All right, I promise."

**

Brennan sat in her office on Monday, going over a large stack of pages from a forensic anthropology text book. The same company that had asked Cam to be a technical advisor had dropped off the pages this morning, and since Brennan had no other pressing work at the moment, she had started right in.

It was basically proofreading, and although she knew she should give it her full attention, she found her mind wandering back over the past several days.

On Sunday she had called Miranda Charles' parents. To tell them that the man who had killed their daughter, or at least planned the cover-up, was behind bars.

Liana had answered, and Brennan had told her there was news, asking if she wanted to hear it now, or in person. "Now," she had said. "Just give Marc a second to get on the upstairs phone."

He had become more emotional of the two. They had both gone silent, then Marc began to sputter, "He was… How did they… Can we…" He had to put the phone down.

Liana stayed on the line. She asked a few practical questions, which Brennan answered: how Booth had gotten the call from the Bureau, how they had caught Anders.

Then Liana asked about the trial. "We want to go," she had said. "We want to see justice done for that--" She couldn't finish the sentence, but her voice sounded the way Brennan had felt: rampant, angry, vindicated.

Suddenly Brennan regretted her decision to make this call without Booth's help. Criminal trials were no place for family members of the victims, because graphic evidence would be analyzed without a coating of euphemistic terms. What was a sensitive way to say, 'No, you can't go because you couldn't handle it'?

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Brennan compromised. "Perhaps you could talk to my partner. He could explain some of the protocol. But," she added, "you might be called to testify, in which case you would be barred from the trial, at least until after you took the stand."

Liana seemed satisfied with that, and remembered to thank her for calling. Before hanging up, Brennan suggested something she could tell Marc. "If it will help," she said slowly, "tell him that relief can be worse, or more powerful, than pain. I learned that recently, from a friend."

**

That weekend she had also talked to Angela, who had been worried, unable to get in touch with either Brennan or Booth on Friday and Saturday. So she had told Angela a short version of what had happened. Because Brennan had already revealed enough to one person--she did not need to do it again. She needed to pull back and regroup.

Angela, like Booth, was good at sympathy, but she sometimes lacked perspective. She would say, 'Sweetie, that's horrible,' or, 'I'm so worried for you,' and those kinds of responses could intensify fear, rather than help control it. Brennan needed to stay uninfluenced by her friend's dramatic sensibilities. Angela, who could laugh, cry, or believe she'd fallen in love at the drop of a hat. Angela who would use that evening at Booth's apartment as 'proof' that Brennan should sleep with him, or at least embark on a romantic relationship.

So she had said, "I'm okay, Angela. Booth and I are both fine." When her friend had responded with silence, Brennan insisted, "I'm not just saying that. It's true. I can't be entirely sure I won't fall apart again, but I feel better."

**

That morning Brennan had received an email from Sweets, to both her and Booth. First, he had written, let me say how glad I am that you nailed this guy Anders. But it might have instigated a variety of complicated feelings on your part, which I'm sure we can thoroughly discuss at our session tomorrow.

Brennan fidgeted at her desk. She did not want to discuss anything with Sweets, or Booth for that matter. (Hadn't they said it all, at his apartment that weekend?) But she feared she would have to come forward. Because, despite her assurances to the contrary, she didn't know whether she would snap under pressure--the pressure of tracking down murder suspects again. She did not think it was likely, but it would be negligent not to consider the possibility.

Brennan glanced over the pages she was supposed to be proofing. She was familiar with the symptoms of post-traumatic stress. She had experienced some of them, after that windowless cell in El Salvador.

That had been… it was hard to compare that situation to this one. It had been worse, in many ways. Worse while it was happening: she'd never felt so alone. The acidic fear her only company, eating away at her every minute. Then again, she hadn't had to worry about someone else--someone she cared for being drugged, or injured, or killed.

The boundaries between _safe _and _not safe _had been more clear. She had been in another country, subject to the whims of a corrupt and xenophobic militia. Once she'd been released and flown back home, she'd known she was safe. She had resumed work, in the reassuring surroundings of a lab. And, provided she stayed out of small, enclosed spaces, the lingering fear had receded.

The guards had pushed her around, and threatened her life, but the abuse had been psychological, not physical. And its after-effects more predictable.

But when she'd woken up to Booth's hand on her--she hadn't felt quite that brand of panic before.

Brennan took a deep, conscious breath, then glanced at her computer. After finishing these proofs, she should go online. She would research more about PTSD, so she could decide whether to enlist Sweets' help, or whether it would be better to leave him out of it.

She would have to determine whether she would be putting herself or Booth in any danger by going out in the field. What if, in some future crisis, she let him down?

Except that researching psychological phenomena was about the last thing she wanted to do right now. It was that amorphous, quasi-scientific field she found too irrational and messy. She did not need to get lost in the convolutions of her psyche. She needed to get out.

I _should _come to some conclusion, she told herself, before our meeting with Sweets. But…

Brennan realized she was about to repeat the mantra of their weekend movie heroine, Scarlett O'Hara. _I won't think about that now. I'll think about it tomorrow._

**

Continuing to skim the textbook, Brennan found a small typo in a paragraph about osteoblasts. The mistake was not even anatomy-related. Why, she thought, did I accept this? I have more valuable ways to spend my time. The editors just wanted the prestige of adding my name to their credits.

She thought again of her talk with Angela. It made her want to do something other than sit at her desk. Something like…going out dancing with her friend. She didn't often want to--Angela usually had to drag her--but right now, it sounded perfect. She could dress in some colorful or revealing outfit, sit at a bar with her friend and toss back shots of alcohol until slightly intoxicated. Then she could head to the dance floor for some unrestrained tribal-type of movement, spurred by the strobing lights and thumping music, whose baseline would reverberate in her sternum.

But she imagined Angela's reaction if she suggested they go out tonight. '_You're _inviting _me_?' she would say. 'To go out dancing, on a weeknight? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?' Or else, 'Come here, sweetie, and let me feel your forehead. Either I'm hallucinating, or you are.'

Brennan shook her head, and flipped ahead in the proofs. Studying a diagram of the humerus, she found another error: at the proximal end of the bone, near the shoulder, a line that was supposed to point to the intertubercular groove was actually pointing to the lesser tubercle. She marked it, and then sighed, glancing around her office.

If she couldn't be out solving cases with Booth, at least not yet, she wanted to _do _something. Something to take her out of herself. Something slightly risky, that took total concentration.

When she had felt this restless in the past, she had gotten on a plane. She had taken off to a remote region, occupied by soldiers and exotic insects, to kneel in the mud, identifying bodies.

In fact, hadn't she gotten an email last week from one of her archeologist friends? She'd almost forgotten, between closing the murder case with Agent Romero, then heading to Quantico, and rushing back for Anders' arrest. Swiftly she scrolled through her inbox. There--Professor Lillios' message said she was going on a dig in Portugal this very week. Brennan could not have been luckier.

She reread the message. This time of year was not the usual field season, but the climate in that corner of the country was mild enough to permit excavation. The area included a Paleolithic cave, and a nearby Bronze Age site. While there was no guarantee of finding human remains, Lillios had discovered bones on her previous trip.

Perfect, Brennan thought. Someplace barely marked on a map. Someplace it would take half a day to trek to, carrying supplies on your back. Hard, focused work, under damp tarps or hot sun, where dust gets into your mouth and under your clothes.

But also someplace you could leave after a week or two. That part of Portugal was not so remote; Brennan could travel for another couple weeks, staying at fine hotels with giant bathtubs, to luxuriate in suds and thoroughly wash the grime from her skin. And she could satisfy her urge for a range of adrenaline-spiked activities: hiking, rock climbing, diving, spelunking.

Brennan pushed the pile of papers further away on the desk.

If she couldn't be doing meaningful work with Booth, why stay? She could go where she'd be appreciated, her talents more fully utilized. She could go be surrounded by scientists, foreign languages, and strangers who knew nothing about her. Who had never heard of Anders or Rawling.

She could come back in a month, with some blisters and a light tan, and things would be back to normal. Tears dried, traumas forgotten. She and Booth could resume where they'd left off: a fresh start. And by then, maybe Rawling would be in jail.

Brennan picked up the phone to contact her friend. And if there wasn't cell reception at the dig site, email should work. She would get the details, and wheedle or negotiate a place on the team. If she packed tonight, she could be on a plane tomorrow.

She would have to email Sweets to cancel the session, and tell Cam and Booth.

Tell Booth.

Brennan felt a sinking sensation in her belly. She imagined the expression on his face, or the hurt she would hear in his voice.

But why _hurt_? She had gone on trips before; she had every right to go on a trip now. _No_, the non-rational corner of her brain told her. You can't run off and abandon him. Not now.

Besides, Sweets would read something into this plan, she just knew.

Brennan slammed her palm on the pile of proofs and stood up from the desk.

All right. No jetting off across the globe. Not today, anyway.

But she could not stay in this office. It was time for Plan B.

**

She took an extra-long lunch break. First, to the firing range.

Brennan settled the earphones over her head, looking down the long, dim corridor with the human outline at the end. The gun barrel felt warm and smooth, molded to her hand.

First, the kill shots: chest, head, neck. Then practice winging, in the arm.

Click a bullet into the chamber. Aim, breathe, squeeze the trigger.

Twenty shots, then check the accuracy. She brought the target skimming toward her on its tether, and analyzed the small ragged holes. She'd hit exactly where she'd aimed, for nine out of ten shots. Not bad. But not _enough_, either.

Next, to her gym, where she signed up for a group cycling class. Equipment: shorts, tank top, water. Legs powering a bike in the hot, dark room. High-energy music loud enough to motivate but not overwhelm. Palms slick on the rubber handle grips. Pushing the resistance higher, trying to keep the same pedal cadence. Watching other people's spinning feet, the whir of bicycle flywheels not quite drowned out by the music.

Her quadriceps and calves burned. Sweat stung her eyes.

Better, Brennan decided, than a dance club. Better workout, more endorphins, and no male advances to repel.

She returned to the Jeffersonian with her hair still wet from the shower, a pleasant fatigue in her leg muscles, and a little more peace in her mind.

She knew what she wanted to say to Sweets at their session tomorrow.

**

**A/N: **Brennan's friend Lillios who was going on the dig--I stole the name from another old professor. Mine did conduct archeological work in Portugal, and worked with me on a senior project. Aw, I'm getting all nostalgic.

I did a little research (thank you, wikipedia) about guns, for Brennan's trip to the firing range, but wasn't able to find how many shots you usually get before reloading. I did realize that she'd use an automatic, and not, as my description implied, one where you manually load a bullet into the chamber. But, to quote B&B from Man in the Fallout Shelter, this is one of those times you don't want to 'ruin the true truth with facts.' Truth meaning the artistic integrity of my prose…if I do say so myself.

**Surgeon General's Warning: **I have not been able to meet my minimum weekly requirement of reviews. My writing muscles might become weak and anemic. But you can help!


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: **Thank you, one and all, for the reviews from the past week!

**Part 29**

Booth called that afternoon. Brennan had been consulting with Cam, who was performing an autopsy of a fleshy dead body. Brennan was studying the gray and white x-ray images mounted on the wall, but took her cell phone into the corridor to talk to Booth.

"Yeah, another session with Sweets," he lamented. "But listen, Caroline wants to meet with us sometime this week. Stuff about…preliminary information about Anders' trial. I don't know what exactly. We could both come to your office, maybe Wednesday?"

Brennan agreed, trying to ignore feelings of foreboding.

She had decided to show up a little early at the FBI building tomorrow, before their time with Sweets. She had something she wanted to ask Booth.

**

Angela came to check on her before they both left for the evening. "Want to get some dinner?" she asked as she entered Brennan's office. "Or," Angela paused, cocking one hip. "You know what I've really felt like doing lately? Shopping."

Brennan stood up from the desk, sorting some papers into neater stacks. Her friend must still be worried by her unwillingness to say more about the weekend…if she was suggesting 'shop therapy.'

"I have a better idea." Brennan reached for her coat on its hook. "Let's go dancing afterward."

"Wow." Angela did not ask if Brennan was ill, but said, "Okay…what brought that on?"

She was still feeling reckless enough to be blunt. "It's either that, or getting on a plane to Portugal."

Angela's gaze sharpened, and she looked at her friend for a long moment.

Brennan felt the need to fill the silence. "There's an excavation starting," she explained. "I'd really like to go, but I know, I shouldn't. For a lot of reasons, mainly--Anders' trial will be coming up, and even if legal proceedings often take a long time to get started, I probably shouldn't leave the country. They might need me for the pre-trial hearings." She realized she was rambling, and clutching her coat much too tightly.

Angela was still looking at her with that introspective, almost analytical gaze. "_Mainly _that reason, huh?"

Brennan started to frown in confusion.

"Okay," her friend relented. "I see. We'll make this girls' night out. Dinner and dancing, even on a Monday. And I know just the place--guaranteed that no men will hit on us." She turned to accompany Brennan out of the office, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Picture this: Nothing but cute guys as far as the eye can see, and they're all more likely to compliment you on your outfit than try to get your phone number."

Brennan thought for a second. "A gay bar?"

"You got it, sweetie." Angela waited while Brennan locked her office door. "I have an artist friend who can get us in. But--" She held up a warning hand. "All of this is on one condition."

"What's that?"

"_No _talking about work. Okay, no autopsies, no skeletons, no Portugal." Angela ticked them off on her fingers. "And definitely no criminals whose names start with A and who have just been arrested."

Brennan wasn't sure whether to be grateful or amused. "I can live with that."

**

Booth waited outside Sweets' office. He shifted on the couch, and flipped through the magazines on the table. He looked up at the framed pictures on the wall overhead, black ink-blot things that looked like jumbo jets or some of Hodgins' bugs, but that Brennan said resembled the sphenoid bone...wherever that was.

Booth was about to get up and pace the room, when Bones walked in. She was stifling a yawn.

"Sorry," she said. "I know I asked you to get here early." She plopped down on the couch next to him. "I took a nap after lunch."

"What's the matter?"

"Angela and I went out last night."

"Went out?" he said incredulously. "How'd she swing that?"

"Actually, it was my idea."

His mouth curved into a half-smile. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing." Then she turned to him, with a business-like tone. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah, what's this about, Bones? Are we going to conspire to keep things from him again?" He nodded toward Sweets' office door.

"I'm reluctant to mention it to Sweets, but I feel obligated to do so."

Her eyes were serious, and Booth could tell she didn't want to bring this up. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think she was scared.

"This isn't," he asked, "about the weekend? You don't want to tell him all about that, do you?"

"No, but…I might have to. To verify whether symptoms of PTSD are asserting themselves." Brennan rubbed her arm where Booth had held her, and didn't seem aware she was doing it. "Perhaps we should enlist Sweets' professional opinion. Because…" She took a breath. "If we purposefully hide something like this, or even if we tell him everything… I'm afraid he might keep us separated indefinitely. He might say I'm a danger to you and I should stay in the lab--"

"A _danger _to me? Bones," Booth was shaking his head, "you've saved me." Then he gave a small grin. "Almost as often as I've saved you."

She still looked uncertain. "I don't want him to keep me out of the field any longer, but… just in case, I could take some time off." Did she actually sound hopeful? "There's a dig…"

Oh, no.

Booth stayed silent, and Brennan trailed off at his expression. He forced himself to ask, "Where?"

"Portugal." She started to describe the site, but he was only half listening.

He didn't know what to feel first. Angry, or hurt, or simply glad she wasn't already on a plane. He hated to admit it, but this was typical Bones. Just when they were getting close to--something--she wanted to run. But, that weekend at his apartment, she hadn't seemed freaked out. She'd seemed at ease, going along to Parker's game, joking with them... And now? She might not have built her walls back up, but taking off across the ocean amounted to the same thing.

He wanted to grab her arm again. _Don't run out on me_, he wanted to say. _Don't you dare run away, not after-- _

But that response would not go over well. She would get defensive, and he would lose his chance. No, right now he had to reassure, and show her they could stay solid.

"Bones." Booth interrupted her speech about Bronze Age artifacts, and met her eyes intently. "We don't need Sweets and we don't need trips abroad. I can tell you right now: You don't crack under pressure. Not once since I've known you."

She looked a little taken aback. Her eyebrows lifted skeptically, but he could tell she wanted to believe him.

"I mean," he said, "not when it counts. Maybe afterward, once it's safe. But that's only natural." He tried to smile again, and narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. "We're the same like that. Cool under fire."

"So…" Bones was partly amused, partly tentative, but sticking with her method of elucidating his claims. "We don't have nervous breakdowns until later? Usually in each other's apartments, judging by recent evidence?"

"Yeah," he told her. "That's right."

But her smile faded, and she stared down at the coffee table copy of _Psychology Today_.

She was, he thought, very brave to be here at all. Yes, she had half threatened to leave the country, but she was willing to bring Sweets into this. As much as she hated psychology, she would do it, so they wouldn't be barred from working together.

Then Brennan said quietly, "How do I know I won't let you down?"

Booth caught his breath at her honesty.

"How do I know," he murmured, "I won't let _you _down? There's no guarantees, Bones. But… I trust you."

Her cool blue eyes had fixed on him. Now she blinked in an overwhelmed sort of way, and he groped for a scrap of humor. "Okay, maybe not about knowing some TV show, or what's the most sensitive way to say something… but for all the important stuff."

He looked at her steadily. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said. "I trust you."

Booth wasn't sure he could take much more of this intense eye contact. After a few seconds, they both looked away, sighing a bit.

He adjusted his tie, thinking that he might have added a caveat to his statement. I trust your genius, he could have said, and your gutsy courage. I trust you with my life. But I can't trust you not to break my heart, because you don't believe in yours. I can't be sure you won't fly off to outer Mongolia when the next exciting dig comes along…or the next time you're scared to let people get close to you.

Brennan crossed her legs, absently tweaking the pleat in the center of her slacks. "I still want to do the work," she said. "It's just that…things might be harder than usual."

"I know," he said. "We'll just take it slow, okay?"

She looked at him with the faint frown she wore when pursuing precision. "Booth, murder cases don't allow us to choose the speed. They have a way of dictating."

**

Sweets watched the partners settle themselves in their customary positions across from him. They both appeared crisp and professional, Brennan wearing a dark blue jacket, and Booth's usual suit accented with a snazzy green tie. However, they also looked slightly unsettled. It was subtle, but Sweets was trained in these matters. He was sure that something significant--something emotional--had recently occurred between them. How recently was another question.

Yes, he suspected they talked outside his office, waiting for him to complete paperwork, or else conclude the appointment before theirs. But he wasn't prepared for Booth's first statement, that headed off any prompting he had been about to give.

"I hate to disappoint you, Sweets," he announced, "but really, we've already said, and figured out, just about everything."

"And we have faith in each other's abilities," Brennan put in.

Before Sweets could decide how to respond, Booth seized on her word choice. "_Faith_?" he asked. "Not confidence? Actual faith?"

She looked at him quizzically, not sure how much he was teasing her, or whether she should be annoyed. But she shook off the comment, redirecting her attention to Sweets. "I have a favor to ask. In fact, it was your idea in the first place. I would like to have another session at Quantico, to try the Firearms Automated Training System."

Why, Sweets wondered, was she being so cooperative about taking one of his suggestions? He glanced at Booth, and saw that this was news to him, but perhaps not surprising news.

"Okay…" Sweets began, waiting to hear her out.

"We were interrupted last week by Anders' arrest," Brennan explained, "and I still believe that the simulation would be valuable practice. Or," she turned to Booth, "maybe they could run a scenario for us in Hogan's Alley. It's a complete small town, right, populated with actors?"

"Yeah," Booth said, "who are told to be as unhelpful as possible for the agents in training."

"We shouldn't need to practice the investigation part," Brennan continued, "but the set-up would provide a better real-world measure of stressful situations. It's still a simulation, but not like the firearms training. Not in in the sense that…" She broke off, unable to find accurate words. "It's not a two-dimensional video screen," she finished. "The people can still grab you or threaten you."

Sweets' brain was rapidly processing what he was hearing. First, what had Booth meant by 'we've already said and figured out everything?' The partners must have had some serious talk in the wake of Anders' arrest. They did seem more at ease with each other, in contrast to some of their earlier interactions. But, damn, Sweets thought, why couldn't I have been a fly on the wall for _those _conversations?

And now, Brennan would only be suggesting more 'practice' if she was concerned about herself or Booth. She was clearly devising a test of some kind. And that, Sweets realized, must be a test of her own abilities. Her choice of words gave it away: 'real-world situations, where people can grab you or threaten you.'

Sweets realized that he had been studying Brennan for a moment too long. She looked uncomfortable, while Booth had an almost aggressive look on his face, as if he could protect his partner from Sweets' perceptive gaze. Yes, he decided, they were both a little worried about _her _now…

And he _really _wanted to find out what had tripped it off.

"All right," he said, "if you'd both like another run with the Quantico training, I'll definitely see what I can do. Provided that, today, we discuss--"

The soft trill of a cell phone interrupted him. All three of them patted their pockets, but it was Sweets who took his out, looking guilty.

"Sweets!" Booth exclaimed. "After all the times you tell us to turn _our _phones off!"

"Sorry," he mumbled, peering at the ID on the screen. It was Deputy Director Cullen. "I have to take this." He stood up and went to the window for some small measure of privacy.

"Sweets, I need an answer," Cullen said in his blunt fashion. "Are Booth and Brennan good to go again as partners, or not?"

"Uh, actually, sir--"

Booth glanced at Brennan and muttered, "It must be my boss, if Sweets is going with _sir_."

"I don't know if you've had enough time to evaluate them," Cullen was saying, "but they've both conducted themselves pretty well on separate cases. And--the thing is, we found a body. So I need to know now, because their team is one of the best we've got."

Sweets could not believe the timing of these murder cases. "Are you kidding me? No, sorry sir, of course you're not."

"What," Cullen said, "are they in your office right now?"

"Yes, they are." Sweets turned to look at them. The pair was obviously torn between impatience and curiosity: Booth raised his eyebrows, while Brennan tapped her foot.

"Well?" Cullen prodded.

Sweets quickly considered his options. This session had barely started; how was he to make a diagnosis, especially after their hiatus from therapy appointments? But he realized that his gut was telling him something important: he couldn't do it to them. He couldn't keep them apart.

Yes, they had hidden things from him, and perhaps they were still hiding. But somehow that made their partnership stronger, as if united against him. And, if something serious had indeed happened, they'd survived it well enough without his help.

They were _better _with each other. And that meant both that they were recovering from their traumatic experience, and that they were simply better people when they were together.

Besides, Sweets thought, if he told Cullen, 'No, they're not ready,' then the case would go to another team. And he would have some major explaining to do when he got off the phone.

Sweets sighed, and then he gave Cullen the go-ahead.

"All right," the man said with some satisfaction. "I'll call them with details in a minute."

Sweets pocketed the phone, and slouched back into his chair.

"What the hell was that?" Booth asked good-naturedly.

"You," Sweets told them, "should thank me. I just gave your partnership the green light. I just told Cullen that it was my professional opinion, as your therapist, that you are cleared to work together on all facets of murder cases."

He watched them look at each other, then back at him, with a sort of dawning comprehension--even joy.

"As a matter of fact, any minute now…"

Two phones chirped in unison. Sweets made a hand gesture that said he had predicted it. Glumly he watched them check the message.

"Well, sorry Sweets." Booth was already on his feet. "Looks like we have to go. Bad timing, eh?" He grinned in a way that completely negated the meaning of 'bad.'

"Come on, Bones."

She stood up too, heading for the door, but stopped long enough to say, "Thank you, Sweets." He nodded to acknowledge her sincerity.

"Yeah, Sweets, you're the best. Okay, gotta run." Booth yanked the door open and held it for his partner.

Sweets might have chuckled at the irony: how happy they were to hear about a dead body, because it was a legitimate excuse. They were like little kids released from a time out, almost gleeful to rush out of there.

As Brennan stepped across the threshold, Booth guided her by placing one hand on the middle of her back. It was, Sweets noticed, a comfortable gesture, and, although he couldn't be sure how he knew, both of them took great pleasure in it.

**

**A/N: **Whee! Another dead body! Are you happy too?

FYI, Booth's comment ('I trust you with my life. But I can't trust you not to break my heart, because you don't believe in yours') was inspired by a Farscape episode. Can't remember which one, but the quote, from the male lead to the female lead was, "I trust you with my life. But not my heart."

That show had a similar opposites-attract relationship, between the emotional and practical, between a scientist and a soldier. Except that the man was the emotional science guy, and the woman was the practical warrior. They actually did get together…sort of…except I never did get to see that chunk of the series! If anyone watched both, which couple is hotter, B/B or John/Aeryn? It's a _really _tough call. Hm, any interest in some wacky crossover story…?


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: **I was thinking about the passage of time in this story, and realize it has taken longer in real life than in story time, only two months or so. I dislike the "three weeks later…" device, and I also feel compelled to account for every minute of the characters' lives, perhaps because they skip so much on the show. But this is the benefit of fiction, that you can have one evening (like at Booth's apartment) take three weeks to explore!

More time probably needs to have passed, to be realistic in terms of 'healing,' but I won't worry too much, because it _feels _longer, for us and for the characters.

**Part 30**

Booth stood at the edge of the ditch, shoulders hunched into his trench coat, trying to keep the freezing drizzle from trickling down his neck. He and Bones had left Sweets' office three hours before, and for two of those hours, she had been crawling around in the ditch, examining remains.

The ribcage and skull lay near the bottom, half-embedded in the mud. It looked, to Booth, like someone had pushed the victim face-down into the muck, the way you press candles into cake frosting. Skeletal legs were just visible, under the bare, tangled branches of the shrubbery that choked this section of the ditch.

Bones, typically, had refused his help clambering down. In fact, he'd barely had time to take in the depressing sight before them, when she was already picking her way down the treacherous incline. Belatedly, he'd held out his hand to offer assistance, but her attention was fixed on the bones.

They were covered with a waxy, slimy substance typical of this stage of decomposition, and Booth could make out a few tatters of skin or clothing adhered to some of the ribs.

The top half of the gully was actually dry, hard-packed and parched by the sun, but it turned to mud several feet lower.

Bones had sloshed into the six inches of water at the bottom, and crouched over the body.

"Male," she said. "Eighteen to twenty-five... I won't be able to tell much more until we free him from this mud." Then she craned her neck, examining the victim's head. "Oh, here…" Her gloved fingers trailed over the skull, where it disappeared into the dirt. "This could be blunt force trauma to the back of the cranium."

"Okay, Bones," Booth had proclaimed. "That's all I need to hear. You know the drill, boys." He waved an arm at the forensic team. "Take it all back to the Jeffersonian!"

That, however, was proving harder than anticipated.

So here Booth still was, shivering at the top of the ravine. And there Bones still was at the bottom, well covered in mud by now, supervising the removal of the body.

"Stop!" she cried. "Don't do it like that." One of the FBI team froze in the act of stabbing a trowel into the caked earth near the victim's skull. "You could damage the cranium." Brennan took the tool from his hand, and began prodding gently, farther away from the skull.

As she and the team had explained to Booth, the soil in this ditch was mostly composed of clay. That meant that the mud in the wet sections at the bottom was sticky and pliable, while the upper sections had solidified into rock-hard clots.

The skull was lodged in the hard, dry portion, while the smaller bones of the feet, and perhaps the missing hands, might be lost in the muck at the bottom.

Along with issuing orders to the forensics team, Brennan was methodically sifting through the mud and water for any loose pieces of bone.

Booth watched his partner turn the trowel over to someone else, then carefully step further along the ditch before crouching down again.

She plunged her hands into the cold, dirty water, feeling around for objects that might be significant. She had already collected several small evidence bags of bone and fiber from the gummy soup. Booth thought, oddly, that she looked like a raccoon obsessively washing its food, or fishing for edibles in a stream.

Finally, she stood up. He hoped to god she was ready to leave now, and not just fetching another evidence bag. He'd already had to go back to the truck twice to warm up, holding his hands out to the heating vents. It was either that or start doing jumping jacks here at the edge of the ditch.

"Ah, Bones?"

She was shaking muddy water from her hands, and looked up, almost surprised to see him. "Booth, I didn't know you were still here."

"Of course I am, Bones. I'm giving you a ride back. So can we _please _go now? I'm freezing my ass off. And you must be too--you're all wet and muddy."

"Well," she said, "that is a risk of going into drainage ditches." She stripped off her gloves, and started to climb out, grabbing onto the larger shrubs and branches to stabilize herself. Booth leaned over and offered his hand. She took it, letting him pull her up as she took the last steps out of the trench.

Her hands were positively freezing. He told her so, his voice squeaking in concern. "And you're soaked!" Her navy field suit was dark with patches of water, and splotched with mud on the knees, hips and elbows.

"Not soaked," she corrected. "This is waterproof, mostly."

After she'd given a few more directions to the forensics team, the two of them went to the car. Bones held onto the doorframe to balance herself while peeling off the field suit. Her clothes underneath were wet too, and she was shivering by the time she'd yanked off the boots. Booth helped her pile everything on the floor behind the front seats, and they hopped gratefully inside.

He turned the heat on full power, and pulled away from the scene without a backward glance.

Brennan was searching for her shoes under the seats. "But I'd rather not put these on," she said once she'd located them. "My socks are wet too."

She had a smear of mud on her cheek, probably from using her wrist to brush away a strand of hair. Booth pointed it out to her, then watched her flip down the sun shade to glance in the mirror. She licked her knuckles and swiped at the dirt, like a cat.

They drove along a bare stretch of road populated only by electric lines and frail-looking trees. Brennan held her hands out to the heating vents, her skin red with cold.

"Didn't you have any warm waterproof gloves, Bones? I mean, you've usually got everything imaginable in that field kit of yours."

"I did," she said, "but I couldn't wear them. They're too thick, and don't allow proper dexterity. Searching through the water, I wouldn't have been able to tell what I was feeling."

Booth shook his head. "That's some good dedication to science, right there. Risking hypothermia or frostbite…"

"It's not cold enough for that," she said absently, but her thoughts had already turned toward the upcoming lab work. "It's too bad we couldn't search along a larger area," she said. "Of course, we have samples of water and mud for Hodgins…"

Yeah, Booth thought, they had to remove an entire chunk of the ditch, so as not to disturb the bones.

"…but it might be difficult to tell if the body was dumped here," she mused, "or whether the water volume in the gully would have been enough to carry it from another location.

"There was evidence of scavenging, for instance bite marks around the distal radius and ulna, that we can get a better look at back at the lab. It was probably crows or raccoons," Brennan decided, "but I'm not sure why they would've taken the hands. They are more portable, but they have relatively little flesh and would not provide much nutritive value, in terms of calories."

"Ugh, Bones, come on! You're making me lose my appetite. Because," he reminded her, "it's dinner time, once we get back."

They rode in silence for several minutes, soaking up heat from the air vents. Booth found himself reflecting on the conversation outside Sweets' office.

He glanced at Bones, who was watching the scenery and looking…what? She seemed…satisfied. Almost serene. Here she was, cold and wet, having spent two miserable hours looking at the remains of a murder victim…and now, back in the car with him, she looked more content than she had for weeks. It made Booth smile.

"So," he said lightly, "now that we have a case together, you're not going to go threatening to leave the country again, right?"

She looked at him with mild surprise. "I wasn't threatening."

"Oh, you were threatening," he told her. "You can threaten with the best of them."

"Wha--I do not! The best of who?"

Booth ignored her indignant reaction, though he couldn't help noticing how cute it was. "No, what I want to know is… You were just saying that to get a reaction out of me. Weren't you?" He glanced at her again, his words purposefully provocative. "Threatening to fly off to the other side of the world? What were you hoping I'd do, Bones? Huh?"

Now she was annoyed at his impertinence, and just uncomfortable enough that he might have hit on a grain of truth.

He let her sit in confusion for a second before prodding again. "I mean, hadn't you already decided _not _to go off to Portugal? So then, why bring it up at all?"

"Well--" she sputtered, "we're partners. Aren't we supposed to share things like that?"

"Yeah, we are… But I still say you wanted to get some reaction out of me. So I'd give you a really good reason not to run off to some exotic location." His eyes narrowed, his expression self-assured. "That's it, isn't it? You wanted me to beg you to stay, Bones. Admit it."

"I did not want to you to beg anything. And we _have _a reason, just like you said--this case."

"Oh no," Booth protested. "I mean a _reason_. Like--you wanted me to get all dramatic on you. Right outside Sweets' office--what should I have done? Fall down on one knee and say, Please Bones," he affected a lovesick wail, "life is empty without you! I need you too badly, with your team of squints and your giant mud boots and--" He tailed off, laughing. But he was also afraid that, in another second, he would've said something much less partner-like.

Brennan gave a disbelieving sort of laugh. "I know you're prone to hyperbole, but now you're just being ridiculous. And," she said a little plaintively, "I wish I knew how much you're teasing, and how much is real."

It's always real, Bones, he thought. All of it.

"You know," she went on, and now there was a glint in her eye, "Sweets says you can learn a lot about a person by the kinds of things they joke about. He says it reveals their true feelings, but without any risk." Booth tried to keep his face impassive and innocent. "There's a safety net," she said, "because you can always laugh it off and believe it was part of the joke. Things you would never say under normal circumstances."

"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "Since when do you believe in Sweets' psychology?"

"I'm just saying…" Bones let the phrase hang there meaningfully.

Booth tried to be annoyed, but could not. In fact, he was smiling.

He felt pleasantly warm now, and pulled his coat open, tugging to loosen his tie as well. They had another thirty minutes before they got back to D.C.--might as well be comfortable.

Brennan, a moment later, asked why he looked amused.

He turned his smile on her. "Us, Bones," he said. "The two of us, out on a case, bickering about stuff... Just like old times."

She grinned back at him. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair was coming loose from its neat ponytail, in wispy strands around her face.

Then she said, "I dislike the term 'bickering.'"

"Okay, well what is it that you would say we do, Bones? Argue? Discuss? Exchange witty repartee? Engage in--" _foreplay_, his brain said, and he nearly choked.

Cursing the Freudian slip, Booth felt immensely grateful it had not gotten off his tongue. On the other hand…how would Bones react if it had?

She was still waiting for him to complete his sentence.

"Uh--" he tried to recover. "Engage in verbal interplay?"

She considered his choice of words, apparently not noticing anything unusual about his hesitation. "I suppose that would be an accurate description. These kinds of activities--friendly debate, teasing or banter…" It was obvious she had entered anthropologist-mode. "…They serve as bonding rituals, a sort of social glue that strengthens relationships. It helps reaffirm what people have in common, without glossing over individual differences."

If, Booth thought, she started talking about _emotional intercourse_, he would drive right off the road.

"Bones, I have no clue what you just said, but you're starting to sound like Sweets. All this 'common ground, pulling against the tendency to dissociate…'"

She was miffed. "I do not sound like Sweets. That is a very weak basis for comparison."

He slid her earlier words back to her. "I'm just saying…"

Her mouth moved in a frustrated way. She was exasperated by his teasing, but her expression acknowledged, 'touché.' And her eyes contained laughter.

**

It took some doing, but Booth managed to convince Brennan not to go straight back to the lab. She grudgingly agreed to go home, put on some dry clothes, and actually relax for the evening.

As he pulled to a stop in front of her building, she asked if he was coming up. "Something warm to drink?" she suggested. "Or if you feel like getting take-out…" She was shoving her still-damp feet into her shoes, grimacing a little.

Booth was very tempted. But then he imagined himself saying, yeah, Bones, I would love to hang out in your living room while you take all your clothes off in the next room--thanks for the offer.

Realizing he already had an excuse for the evening, he told his over-active imagination that it had better curtail itself.

"Thanks, Bones, but I promised to call Parker tonight. He has this book report he's been dying to tell me about."

"Okay," she said amiably. "And that reminds me--there's a chapter of proofreading I should finish tonight. So, I'll see you at the lab tomorrow?"

He nodded, gazing at her just a little too intently. She was reaching for the door handle, but stopped, looking at him curiously.

He failed to adjust his expression into a harmless one, and in response, he saw something surface in her eyes. It was gone too fast to identify, but it made her eyebrows dip and her lips part. And for the second it was there, his heart beat faster.

Booth shook himself, and pushed his own door open, going to help Brennan bundle up her wet boots and field suit.

He waited until she was safely inside the building, then sat in the darkened car. What a day, he thought. First she agrees to psychotherapy to keep our partnership together, then threatens to run away in the next breath.

We decide to go for more training at Quantico, then we get another case, after weeks apart. She tells me she trusts me, and… what does my brain do at the first opportunity? Still thinking of ways to get into bed with her.

**

That evening, Brennan did not do much work reading the textbook. First she had tried to remove the worst of the mud from her field outfit, but gave up after only five minutes. Her skin felt itchy and grimy; the indulgence of a long, hot shower was too hard to resist any longer.

Leaving her still-damp blouse and pants in a puddle on the floor, she stepped into the stream of water. She smoothed her hands over her hair, thoroughly wetting it. Her muscles were stiff from moving around the chilly crime scene, but as she luxuriated in the steam, they stretched and relaxed back into suppleness.

She was wrapping a thick towel around herself before she realized: she had not once thought of the places where Anders had touched her.

By the time she'd eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, fatigue had set in. Brennan knew she was not alert enough to read through the textbook pages; still tired from yesterday's cycling class, followed by late-night dancing, and today's hours in the field. So she decided to go to bed early. It would be nice to have a fresh start at the lab tomorrow, examining the evidence for their new case.

**

Brennan was dreaming. She and Booth were back in his apartment, talking about the victim they'd found in the ditch. But the discussion morphed into a reprisal of their earlier conversations, about the protective benefits of fear, and about trusting each other.

Brennan held her arm out again, wanting Booth to grasp it. He did not look reluctant this time. He reached for her, his eyes glittering.

Then his front door flew open with a crash. Anders and Rawling were there; they _had _been in the hallway, lying in wait. Brennan had no time to be afraid. Booth had drawn his gun, stepping in front of her. Knowing he kept a second weapon stashed somewhere, she began fumbling in his waistband.

Time seemed to slow down, enabling her to find the gun before the criminals could threaten them. And then, it was as simple as being at the firing range.

She and Booth stood side by side, weapons trained on the human silhouettes before them. There was time to aim, time to fire. Brennan shot Anders, and Booth shot Rawling. The men were on the floor, where blood began to pool--black, in this light.

Then Booth was pulling her with him, across the room, and they ran out the back door. They moved through a shadowy space, with the sense of whispering leaves overhead, and they ended up in a clearing, somehow secluded from roads and cars. Brennan was exhilarated, having left fear behind them, with the suspects.

Sirens wailed, far away: other people called to deal with Rawling and Anders. But she and Booth were free. They did not have to linger at a crime scene answering questions. Did not have to go to a hospital for tests, nor appear in court.

Now they were standing on moonlit grass under trees. Brennan felt safe and untouchable, here in the herb-smelling darkness with Booth. Then, without knowing quite how it happened, she was kissing him. His mouth was warm and wet, and she felt desire blooming within her like a time-lapse flower.

They were on the ground together, not caring about grass stains, and this spot under the trees was as comfortable as a bed. Booth's weight pressed into her. She fumbled at his belt, not for his gun this time, and pulled at his shirt, eager to feel the hardness of his muscles.

But what she wanted more was to see his face, clearly, to look in his eyes and know for sure it was him.

Her knees spread wide, cradling his hips as they pushed against hers. His hands held her shoulders, and seemed to be pinning her, but she knew he would let her go if she wanted--and she didn't.

His head dropped low, and he spoke against her ear, tenderly. "I won't let go, unless you tell me." Booth's voice, just as it had sounded at his apartment.

Then he murmured something else: "If you want me to beg you to stay, I will. I'll never let you go, Temperance."

A thrill went through her, a longing that was more than physical. Clothing still separated them, but she rocked upward, squeezing her thighs around him.

Suddenly, even as she ground against him, she was afraid--afraid there would be pain. She did not want to pull away, and yet she should. She should, because Booth was--

Brennan awoke, somewhere between fear and desire. She lay panting for a moment, staring at the ceiling. A few tears dampened her face, and she wrote them off as shock, rather than an excess of emotion. The dream _had _been shocking. The memory of Booth's weight on her, his husky voice at her ear…

Abruptly, she got out of bed. Dragging a blanket with her, she wrapped it around herself, and went to stand by the window. She looked out at the trees and neighboring buildings, the city lights, and faint stars in a soft black sky.

Where on earth had that come from?

All right, she reasoned, it was a fantasy-fulfillment dream. Her mind giving her what she wanted: First, the opportunity for her and Booth, with their own hands, to take out the suspects.

Next--she forced herself to list it--sleeping with her partner.

She had experienced erotic dreams in the past, of course, featuring previous sex partners, or faceless lovers. Booth had even appeared with some regularity, but never this…vividly. And those dreams had not happened so frequently as to become distracting; they usually coincided with the mix of hormones occurring mid-cycle, near ovulation. That was obviously not the case this time, however; since her period had started over the weekend. Besides, Brennan had never fully subscribed to sociobiology as an indicator of human behavior.

Still, it was not surprising if the primitive part of her brain had selected Booth as an erotic partner. This was the first passionate dream she'd had since the assault, and the fear of pain--she knew it was natural, even if it came more from a psychological basis than a physical one. She also knew that whenever she felt ready to resume sexual activity, it would have to be with someone exceptional. Someone respectful and considerate. Someone she felt safe with. Someone she trusted. And Booth was all of those things.

But she did not need to dwell on the sexual component of the dream. That was merely a natural byproduct of working closely with a healthy and attractive male. No, it was the emotional part that troubled her.

Stubbornly, she continued her analysis. Third on the list of fantasies: some kind of promise or devotion from Booth.

Outside Sweets' office, when they had exchanged their declarations of trust… hers had not covered every situation. She could have said, I trust you in all aspects of our job, and in personal interactions. But I don't trust you not to leave, eventually. Because life is impermanent; and nothing is static, not cells or stars or relationships.

Brennan looked up, trying to pick out constellations from her window. But too many buildings obstructed the sky, and too many city lights washed out the natural ones. That light, she knew, could be millions of years old. Some of these stars had already burned out by the time their glow reached Earth. The light seemed real, meeting the receptors in her eyes…but its source was gone.

Booth could be counted on for now, yes. But Brennan would not project too far into the future, because anything could happen. A new job, a transfer… a different school for Parker… a new person in Booth's life. Or the risks could finally catch up with him: he could be injured or killed in the line of duty.

It might be his choice, or it might not. But he would leave her; it was inevitable.

Or perhaps she would be the one to separate them. Another opportunity like the trip to Portugal… It would be better to choose, to have control over the situation.

Brennan's feet were getting cold, standing by the window. She might as well stop in the bathroom, now that she was up. Then she shuffled back to bed, quickly rearranging the covers before burrowing back under the now-chilly blankets.

She lay shivering, still shaken by the dream, and the events of the day. First the touching dialogue with Booth. Then the return to normal casework, and the teasing in the car. Now, the fear. Of what could happen. Of what would not happen.

Brennan turned over, bundling the covers up under her chin. She could put all these thoughts on a back shelf of her mind. Then at some later date she could re-examine them, like a drawer of bones, to see if they had shifted into a different sort of order.

**

**A/N: **I cannot take full credit for the squabbling-as-foreplay line; it's borrowed from a review of "The Priest in the Churchyard" from recapist dot com.

Is it appropriate for the story, that all this sexual tension keeps creeping in? I'm not planning it, I swear! It just keeps happening! Maybe the characters, or my subconscious, are trying to tell me something. Or maybe I'm reading too much of that delicious smut written by some of you lovely people. But I figure you'll tell me if I'm putting in TOO much shipping (or teases, anyway). So, I have an idea of where this could be leading… and I think I should just trust the characters to take us wherever they're going to take us.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: **Happy premiere day!! But try not to get so obsessed that it keeps you from reading and reviewing. ;)

Some ten chapters ago, one reader asked how long this would be, and I said somewhere around 30. Okay, obviously longer--maybe 40? I really had no idea it would expand like this. But I'm having fun, how about you?

**Part 31**

Booth stayed out of the lab all of the following day, to give Bones and her squints time to examine the remains without his interference. And anyway, before that analysis could take place, they would have to free the bones from their sticky clay matrix.

To kill time, he called Caroline, telling her that Brennan was pretty busy with the new case, so they would have to postpone their pre-trial meeting for a couple days.

Booth was also waiting on news from Fleming. Anders' hallway security man, Kaczmarek, had finally been located, and was being brought into the Philadelphia field office for questioning.

He did not have long to wait. Fleming came to get him, announcing that they would set up a video conference. As the lead in the case, Fleming would collaborate with the local agents to interrogate the man. Booth would be allowed to listen, in Fleming's office, and maybe scribble down some additional questions he wanted them to ask.

Ten minutes later, Booth was standing to one side of Fleming's desk, while the agents got their technologies in sync. Fleming spoke briefly on the phone, then tapped some keys on his computer. Finally an image appeared on the screen. If Booth stood at this angle to the viewer, he could just make out the picture, but without being seen by people on the other end.

There was Kaczmarek, sitting in an interview room. Booth felt his hands forming fists. Seeing the guy again…his flat-top crew-cut hair, his stoic expression… It was like being in that hallway the first time.

Kaczmarek's presence should have made Booth more paranoid. Yes, he'd questioned it, and been alert as he always was when going to interview suspects…but it had not been enough.

If only he'd turned around and called for backup. If only he could freeze time right there, before they'd ever gone into that suite. There he'd been, walking up the stairs and down the hall, with Bones next to him. Bones who was… the pre-Anders Bones. Untouched, physically and psychologically.

Booth jerked his thoughts back to the present. The interview was starting, and he focused on it.

**

Brennan looked up at the familiar bleep, as the lab platform accepted an access card. Booth bounded up the steps, and involuntarily, she thought of the last time she'd seen him. Rather, _thought _she'd seen him: two nights ago, in that dream. Lying on top of her, murmuring romance in her ear.

But the details, luckily, were fading. And that fact did _not _cause a flicker of disappointment. Still, an overall sense remained, of intensity both physical and emotional. Which would not affect their working relationship.

"Brennan's brain trust," Booth greeted them cheerfully. "What have you got for me?"

The squints began chattering at once, but not about the case.

"Hey, G-man," Hodgins hailed him.

"It's good to have you back with us," Cam was saying, "in your official capacity."

"Although, some of his unofficial capacities might be a lot more fun," Angela hinted. Hodgins poked her in the arm.

"I did not like working with Agent Romero," Zack decided. "She didn't even attempt to be humorous, or make references to popular culture, so there was nothing for me to misunderstand."

Booth waved off their comments with a smile, automatically checking Brennan's reaction. She had an air of professional detachment, but when he caught her eye, she smiled back.

Now the team gathered around the table where the body was displayed. Booth noticed that only the skull had been cleaned so far. The bones were still coated with a pale cheesy substance, that he just knew would smell horrible, if he inhaled too strongly.

Cam and Hodgins explained that they were still extracting information from the insects, particulates, and traces of flesh, but Brennan and Zack had many plenty of observations about the bones.

"African American male," Zack began. "Probably early twenties."

"Possibly an athlete," Brennan said, "given the dense bones and larger-than-average sites of muscle attachments."

"He was probably hot," Angela added gratuitously.

"He died," Brennan spared a frown for her friend, "from blows to the head." She moved around the table to point out injuries on the cranium. "Two of them, one from behind, which would have knocked him out or at least stunned him, and then another to finish him off, once he was on the ground."

"The blows were from something cylindrical," Zack added. "Like a pipe or a baseball bat."

"And your estimates place time of death about three years ago, correct?" Cam looked to Brennan and Hodgins, who both nodded.

"We're still trying to determine how much water would have been in that ditch at different times of the year," Brennan explained to her partner, "because it would have affected decomposition. Given the state of the bones and the appearance of adipocere, perhaps closer to two years."

"Yeah," Hodgins said, "my preliminary findings support that. The insect activity--"

"Okay, that's great." Booth interrupted. "Has anyone checked missing persons yet?"

"That's what we were waiting for you for, big guy," Angela smirked.

"Whoever he was, he probably played a competitive contact sport," Brennan said. This time she moved down the table, and grasped the victim's knee joint, which was still articulated and covered with patches of shriveled flesh. "Cam and I have agreed that the bones and ligaments of his left knee show signs of injury, consistent with those that often occur in football or soccer."

"What, like an ACL injury?" Booth asked.

"Yes," Brennan said. "How did you know that?"

"You forget I was an athlete, Bones. So, was it a complete tear or just a partial?" He was enjoying his rare moment of appearing smart before the squints.

"Partial. See, here…" Brennan rotated the joint in an authoritative way, probing it with her fingers, and Booth winced at the sound it made--somewhere between a squelch and a creak. "The anterior cruciate ligament," she explained, "runs from the back of the femur, through the intercondylar notch, and connects with the front of the tibia. But this notch…" She glanced up at Booth as if he would lean closer to see exactly what she was talking about. "Usually it's a rounded groove, but on some people, like our victim, it's more an angled. And that can cause additional friction and stress on the ligament, making it more prone to injury."

Booth suppressed a smile at her typical zeal for the minutiae of bone anatomy. "Okay," he said, "so our guy was a genetically unlucky athlete. Let's go check the database and see if we can get a name for him."

Some twenty minutes later, they had three possible names. Booth, watching Brennan and Cam scroll through the list of missing people, noted the depressingly high number of young black men who had vanished in the last few years. Because the records did not go into enough detail for the squints to choose a match, Booth made arrangements for the three sets of dental records to be sent to the Jeffersonian.

Once that was done, he turned to Bones and said in a low voice, "Can I talk to you, in your office?" She looked at him curiously, but followed.

They sat down on her sofa, and without preamble, he told her about the interview with Kaczmarek. "Before this week," Booth said, "there were a bunch of possible leads for where he could be. But once we had Anders' cell phone and other records, Fleming found a number that led us to him.

"And…" Booth sighed. "He's playing dumb. I was afraid that would happen. Because, it's going to be pretty hard to prove he was in on the drug schemes, or the girl's murder." He glanced at Bones. "It's called plausible deniability, right? The burden's on us to prove that he knew any illegal things were happening in Anders' office."

Brennan nodded slightly, in understanding.

"He _was _just a security guard," Booth went on. "He can stick to his claims that he never knew about what sort of business was going on in there. Yeah, we might be able to get him on fraud charges, or something related to that mail-order company Anders was using as a cover… And Fleming and I will go over all the available statements, and documents, and connections between them… But," Booth sighed again, "unless some very specific evidence surfaces…" He shook his head.

"So," Brennan concluded, "he might get off, by playing dumb?"

"Or maybe he wasn't acting." Booth made a wry face. "What do I know? He's like Rawling; they both seem pretty dumb."

She met his eyes. "What do your instincts tell you?"

Booth gave her a somber look. "Yeah. I think he knew something. At least about the drug smuggling, if not the murder."

She was silent for a moment. "Don't they say, sins of omission are worse than sins of commission?"

"How do you know that, Bones? That's a religious thing."

"It is? I don't know how I know it. I just…"

"You just know everything. I shouldn't question anymore." Booth smiled crookedly.

He was keeping an eye on his partner, and she seemed to be taking the news well enough. But he knew it bothered her as much as it did him. True, Kaczmarek had not been in that suite with them, so their grudge against him was not as personal.

But the thought that the security guard could go free… Even if he didn't participate in any illegal schemes, he might well have known about them--but he wasn't moral enough to care. He might have known that a young woman had been killed, and did not lift a finger to stop it.

No, Booth thought, he had stood there impassively, like he had outside the suite. It's possible he heard the confrontation, when Anders pulled those guns on us. The scuffling, the exclamations. Bones yelling, when they injected me with that drug. And then, when she…

"Don't look at me like that," Brennan said. Her tone was both wounded and reproachful.

Booth realized he _had _been staring at her, while seeing something else.

"I don't want--" she started. "I want you to see _me_. Not what happened to me."

Even as guilt rose up in him, he thought, that was very perceptive of her.

Now he blinked, really taking in her appearance. A spring green shirt under the indigo lab coat. A necklace of wooden beads. The distressed lines between her brows.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he said. "I'm doing my best here. I mean, I see both. Because…I was _there_."

"I know." She offered him a grain of understanding. "You can't always help what your brain does, or your memory."

"But," he murmured, "I _do _see you. I always can."

And what I see, he added silently, is beautiful and tough.

**

_Listen, I know we're all of us hiding bruises,_

_but when a veil seems to lift, it doesn't always reveal sorrow._

**

**A/N: **This epigraph is from the poem "And the Sky," by Francine Tolf, my great friend and amazing writer. Please google her to find her website and read more!


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: **I borrowed the victim-and-family names from a French family I met through an exchange program in high school. The kids came to stay here in the spring, and then we went to live with them in Paris, for about two weeks in the summer. I was matched with Corinne, and she had two brothers named Serge and Olivier. I hope they wouldn't find it morbid that I chose their names for this story. If they were reading, I would say _Salut, et merci. _

What has happened to computers/keyboards since I took French in school? I can't for the life of me figure out how to put in French accents. _Zut!_

**Part 32**

Booth was back at the lab on Friday, to hear more news from the team, and later, to meet with Caroline.

"These dental records are a match," Zack announced.

Booth took the file, trying to read the foreign-sounding name. "Serge… G— Na—?"

Brennan was standing at one of the computer stations, calling up the missing persons profile. "_Serge_," she said, with perfect French intonation. "And the surname—it's a silent G, of course—_Gnahoui _probably originates from one of the French-speaking regions of Africa, such as—"

"Yeah, thanks Bones. Just how many languages do you know, anyway?" She opened her mouth, but he said, "No, on second thought, don't answer that."

He came to stand next to her, and they both scanned the information on the computer screen. "Well, he was born in this country," Booth said, "and at least two family members live nearby… Addresses…" He scribbled them on a pad of paper. "Student at the University of Maryland, would have graduated two years ago, if he hadn't disappeared… Date of birth…"

"Booth." He could hear the dismay in Brennan's voice. "He was twenty-three. The same age as Miranda Charles when she was killed." She looked at him helplessly. "Why do we keep getting…?"

"All the young kids," he finished. "Yeah. They're harder than most. But we are going to find out who's responsible.

"Starting with," he mustered his energy, "interviewing the next of kin. So, Bones, you ready for another depressing family notification?"

She nodded gamely. "Ready as I'll ever be."

**

They visited the family's apartment, where the victim's older siblings received the news of his death.

"Mom was right." Olivier looked sadly at his sister, seated next to him on the couch. "She didn't want to go, not while Serge was still missing… In case something happened."

Booth, in one of the armchairs next to Bones, watched as the sister, Corinne, wiped her nose with a tissue. She wore a crisp white blouse and a black headband that kept her hair slicked back. "Our mother's doing humanitarian work in Benin," she explained, gesturing at a photograph on the wall. "She's a doctor."

Booth had noticed that picture when they'd arrived. A stately woman stood in a dusty village, surrounded by a group of grinning children.

Brennan was asking more about the family history.

"Our grandparents left Benin in the 60s," Corinne said, "and took the family to Paris. Luckily they'd gotten out before 72..." Brennan was nodding, while Booth felt lost. "You know, for almost twenty years Benin had this repressive regime," the sister went on, "basically a Marxist/Leninist dictatorship, before they went back to democratic elections in 91." Her mouth twisted wryly. "Our mom made sure we knew all the history. Right, Olivier?"

"_Absolument," _he said.

Brennan whispered to Booth, "That means 'absolutely.'"

"Thanks, Bones, I got that."

"Well, going by a similar sound and spelling doesn't work for many French words," she explained softly. "They're called _faux amis_—false friends. For example, the word _raisin _is spelled the same as in English, but it means grape, not raisin. If you wanted to say raisin, you would say _raisin sec_, or 'dry grape.'"

"Let's save the schoolteacher things for later," Booth hissed. "We sort of have a case to solve here."

Brennan looked guilty at being caught in academic-mode. She glanced at the siblings and apologized, "_Je suis desolee_."

Olivier seemed baffled by the partners' interaction, but Corinne managed to look amused, despite the traces of tears.

Booth steered the conversation back to more dour topics—such as who might have wanted their younger brother dead. It wasn't hard to compile a list of people to investigate. The victim had played college lacrosse, Olivier told them, and Brennan shot Booth a triumphant look. He could almost hear her repeating the anatomy lesson she'd given him earlier: a competitive contact sport in which you can sustain knee injuries.

But Booth was more interested in the _competitive _part. And the fact that Serge had been one of the only black guys in the entire college league.

"Yeah," Olivier acknowledged, "we were kind of nervous about that…but there haven't been incidents or anything. I mean," he added, "we didn't have some scandal like the one at Duke, with white players accused of raping a woman who was doing exotic dancing."

"And," Booth put in, "wasn't there only one African American guy on their team, too? Out of forty-seven team members."

Olivier went to find a roster of names from his brother's former team. Booth took it, and quizzed the siblings about whether any of the players might have harbored hostile feelings, whether on his own team, or opposing ones.

"This guy," Olivier said, pointing to one name. "I don't know if he was hostile, exactly, but he was kind of jealous—because Serge was a better player than he was. Beat him out for the position this guy wanted, and got more time on the field."

Booth nodded, thanking them for their help. Whether or not sports jealousy was a motive for murder, it was a place to start.

**

"So," Bones asked as they drove back, "do you think it was racially motivated? A hate crime?"

"Well, it's too early to tell, but that is one of our main leads right now. It would really be a shame. Poor sportsmanship, problems with diversity…" Booth groaned. "Just what any school needs, more bad press about that. Sports are supposed to be about the game," he said keenly, "you know, the challenge."

He checked the car's digital clock display, as he made a turn that would point them toward the Jeffersonian. "Looks like we'll be getting back just in time for Caroline," he told Bones. "She said she could meet us at the lab."

**

Caroline was already waiting in Brennan's office when they arrived. "There you are," she said. "Another two minutes and you would've been late. Come on." She ushered them inside, closing the door firmly.

Then she seated herself next to Brennan on the office couch, with Booth taking a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

"I wanted to let you know personally, what's happening with this Anders trial. They've had the informal arraignment, to notify him of the charges against him…"

Brennan noticed how Booth had become a great deal more tense, once they sat down. He controlled it well, but she could almost see the anger and anxiety shimmering from him like radiant energy. And, she realized, he could probably see the same feelings coming from her.

"And all those charges are going to include," Caroline counted them on her fingers, "mail fraud, drug trafficking, sexual assault, what amounts to kidnapping a federal agent—and probably, first degree murder.

"So, the grand jury hearing is coming up," she went on, "and of course, the formal arraignment. Now—"

"How's he going to plead?" Booth demanded. "I mean, I know you're not really supposed to share details, but if Anders tries to—" He was already seething, without waiting for Caroline's answer. "He better not try to negotiate a plea, or a conditional one. Because," he glared at the attorney, "no lighter sentences, right?—we agreed. But that would be just like him, trying an Alford plea or something, to assert factual innocence, while—"

"Is that the one," Brennan asked, "where you say you're innocent, but are pleading guilty to a lesser charge?"

"Yeah," Booth said. "To avoid the possibility of a death sentence."

Caroline had been trying to cut in for several moments. "Hold on, cher. The death penalty's not even on the table here—at least not yet. Yes, this man is a terrible miscreant, but he's not a serial killer. And shooting that girl—maybe it was his guard who actually pulled the trigger—it was quick, execution style to the forehead. You could even say it was merciful."

"Unless," Brennan said softly, "they raped her first."

"The point is," Caroline spoke more gently, "the murder was most likely spur of the moment, not premeditated."

"Caroline," Booth fumed, "he planned the whole cover-up and body disposal and—what are you—? You sound like a defense attorney."

"Now, now," she chastised. "I've been called a lot of worse things in my day, but my record for the week was clear. So _far_." She looked at him under frowning brows.

"He—" Brennan sprang to her partner's defense. "He's upset. It's understandable."

Caroline gave her a slightly pitying look. For a genius, this woman sure had a knack for stating the obvious. But, to her credit, she had done it out of friendship…or _whatever _these two had going on between them.

"I'm just stating the facts as they stand," she reminded them. "Preparing you for what's going to happen. And no," she glanced at Booth, "he's not going to get away with dropping it down to manslaughter, because we're pretty sure we can prove he _intended _to kill, if only for a short time before doing the deed.

"Now, the other news…" She glanced at Brennan again. The woman looked a little pale, her eye contact flickering rather than steady. Caroline knew they'd just gotten back from interviewing for a new murder case, and now, Brennan seemed…railroaded. Anders' arrest had happened sooner than they'd all expected. And even though that was a good thing, she could bet it was also rather overwhelming.

Caroline softened her voice, directing her words to Brennan. "They've confirmed the DNA match. Once Anders was in custody, they took samples of his DNA, to compare to the ones on file. The piece you got of him from under your nails, and…" She shot Booth a cagey glance, "other places. So, that necessary formality is all taken care of."

Booth was nodding with an intent frown, but Brennan looked like she was concentrating on not letting her eyes tear up any more than they already had.

Caroline sighed. She would have to take action. "Well, I have a meeting to get to pretty soon, and can't stay and chat with all your eggheads in the lab. But why don't you go, cher," she said to Booth. "Give us a little girls-only time here."

Booth's eyes moved instantly to Brennan. Caroline saw his alarm, that he hadn't noticed the tears until now.

"Bones?" he said softly. She was sitting very still, clearly not prepared to show emotion in front of them both.

"Go on, shoo," Caroline told him.

Booth looked at her for a moment with a 'what the hell' expression on his face, but she gave him her formidable eyebrow-raise, and he obeyed.

He was opening the door when Brennan said, "Booth, stay. I mean, stay in the building. I need to tell you something, later."

Looking mystified, and slightly hurt at being kicked out, Booth went.

When the door had closed again, Caroline shifted a little closer to Brennan on the sofa.

"Now, I didn't think those delicate ears of his were up for hearing this. It's just that… I thought, you being a scientist, and a martial arts expert who kicked that man back in the interrogation room," she said approvingly, "that you'd want to know. They took a cheek swab from Anders for the DNA, and they also took a sample of pubic hair, to compare to the one found during your hospital evidence collection. And," Caroline specified, "it's hair they had to pluck out, mind you, so that's some small amount of pain and indignity this man had to suffer."

Brennan nodded, as impassive as possible, despite watering eyes.

Oh hell, Caroline thought. Girl needs a hug, even if she doesn't realize it. Well, time to take matters into my own hands. Strong maternal presence, coming up.

She held out her arms. "Come here, cherie. Don't fight it, I know best."

Brennan hesitated. "Come on now, I don't have all day." Caroline's voice might have sounded impatient, but her eyes were sympathetic.

And her arms, Brennan decided…she _could _stay there all day. As strange as this was—sitting in her office, hugging the brusque-mannered attorney—she found herself relaxing. Her arms went around Caroline's soft yet solid waist. Her chin pillowed on a padded jacket shoulder. It was reassuring, the smell of her hair and faint perfume.

"Listen, cherie," Caroline murmured. "You did admirably. You fought those creeps, and you fought smart. You've done a fine job all along. Now just sit back and let me do mine."

**

After Caroline left the office, Brennan stood alone for a few moments, making sure her emotions were under wraps. Then she went to find Booth. He was sitting in the lounge with Angela, and it was, Brennan thought, convenient that they were together.

Booth was chuckling over something Angela had said, but when he looked up, concern replaced the smile.

"There you are, Bones," he said. "Are you…? You wanted to tell me some mystery thing?"

"Yes. Angela, you should hear this too." Her friend looked surprised, but followed without asking questions. Brennan marched them back to her office.

Angela shot Booth a look that said, 'Do you have any idea what this is about?' His expression told her he was just as puzzled. But, knowing Brennan, and that resolute look on her face…it couldn't be good.

They reached her office. Just as Caroline had done, Bones gestured them inside, and closed the door. Then she moved around to stand in front of them.

No one sat down.

Booth noticed, for probably the fifth time that day, how stunning she looked in that emerald green shirt. The short sleeves formed a kind of ruffle, a subtle feminine touch. And the color…it made her skin more creamy, her rarefied eyes more intense in their blue-green-gray.

Brennan straightened her shoulders, and looked first at Booth. "I've been meaning to tell you something for weeks, but I didn't realize until now what it was." She glanced between them, and took a breath. When she spoke, her voice was direct, but she did not quite make eye contact.

"A man raped me," she said. "But it's not… It's not a catastrophe. I know it might seem like it at times…" She looked meaningfully at Booth. "Like, in your apartment…" She did not have to elaborate. When he'd woken her up after the movie… He was never going to forget that.

"But," she pressed on, "it's not the worst thing that can happen to a woman. And it's not the worst thing that's happened to me."

Angela was nodding, looking stricken, but also understanding.

However, Booth's demeanor must have told Bones he needed evidence for her claims.

"Of course I wish it had never happened," she said. "Is it going to stay with me for a long time? Probably. But it's not the worst that can happen. And it's not just the assault, you know that." She met Booth's eyes. "It was the threats, and the fear, not just for myself, but…"

_For you_.

Booth tried to think of something to say, and failed. Besides, he sensed that she needed to get through the rest of whatever this was, without interruption.

"I lost my parents, and then my brother, when I was fifteen. _That _was a catastrophe. It felt like the world was ending, that my life was over. And I didn't know who I was anymore, or what would happen to me." Her voice was throaty but did not break.

"_That _is the kind of thing you never fully recover from. Not this. That can destroy your life, or take something from you that you're not sure you can get back. Call it trust; call it innocence. This wasn't as bad as… This doesn't compare," she corrected. "And it won't last, because the acute effects lose their power and die away.

"It wasn't as bad as…" Brennan had been calm, with a particular speech in mind, but her words were starting to get away from her.

"It wasn't like seeing the bodies of mass murder victims, all jumbled in a grave together. It wasn't like the cell in El Salvador—"

"What?" Booth said sharply, but Angela laid a hand on his arm to quiet him.

"It's not like…" Brennan's eyes were still churning and unfocused. "Like seeing your parents drive away, and not knowing for fifteen years what happened to them. It's not like alienating your brother so he left too, and—" She took an unsteady breath, "then later, not wanting to go home after school, or being afraid to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night because your foster father—"

Booth froze again. Bones was shaking her head, realizing she was in a downward spiral she had to get out of.

"Sweetie…" Angela wanted to come forward and hug her. But she held back, while Bren mastered her emotions: pushing away the self pity, brushing off the tears.

"The point is…" Her voice was firm again, and she looked her friends in the eye. "I appreciate your concern. But I wanted you to know. It's okay. I can _do _this."

"We know, Bren," Angela said, trying to smile. "You can still have my shoulder, anytime."

"Bones, I'm sorry, I—"

"No," she stopped him. "Don't be sorry. I mean, you're better at this than a lot of people. You…know how to show me you feel bad about what happened, but without making me feel pitiful about it."

Angela stepped forward. "Okay, I can't take this any longer." She wrapped her arms around her friend in a teary hug.

"Was that too weird of a speech, Ange?" Brennan asked.

"No, honey," she sniffed. "It was great."

Booth stood awkwardly. He looked away, then back at the two women embracing. "All right," he said, "here we go. Giant hug sandwich, coming up." He extended his arms around both of them, hands pressing against their backs, pulling their shoulders against his chest. His head ended up next to Angela's, his nose in the hair by her ear. He squeezed with forceful affection, muttering, "How are my gorgeous squint girls, huh?" He squeezed enough, however, that Angela squeaked, and a moment later they all broke apart, laughing, and sniffling a little.

"Okay, enough of this," Booth groaned. He straightened his tie and jacket. "Time for me to go beat up something in the gym."

Angela had pulled a crumpled Kleenex from her pocket. "Too much estrogen for him," she explained. "Has to go do something manly now."

But Booth stopped in the doorway, looking serious again. His eyes sought Brennan. "I won't forget what you said, Bones. I promise."

When he had gone, Angela turned to Brennan, clutching her chest. "Uh!" She made a strangled sound in her throat. "How can you be on the receiving end of such a smolderingly sweet look and not—and not _die_?"

**

**A/N: **Bren's line to Booth is borrowed from a novel I've been slowly reading (slowly because there are so many B/B things to do instead!). It's _Outlander _by Diana Gabaldon, and her line, which the male lead says to the female lead, is: a knack for letting me know you're sorry for it, without making me feel pitiful about it (p. 154).

I originally planned to have the "not a catastrophe" speech occur a long time ago, when Booth cries at Brennan's apt. He might have needed to hear then: that she was more okay than he'd thought. But, those earlier scenes had plenty going on already. So it happens now. Which works out well, because we all know Bren needs a lot of time to figure out emotional things.

Also, Angela was not originally going to be part of the 'catastrophe' scene. But my story must have been neglecting her a little, because she just elbowed her way in.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: **Lots of anatomy in this section. Dude, I love the stuff. Pay attention, there might be a quiz later.

Hopefully this chapter doesn't undermine the integrity of Brennan's "not a catastrophe" speech. I meant it, and she meant it. But, you know, this is still a long process.

**Part 33**

That evening, Brennan decided to work on her neglected novel. But she still would not give free rein to her creative side. Instead, she organized her chronology and plot, sorting the details of the case her character would solve.

After only thirty minutes, she found herself tiring of it, and got up from the desk to wander the apartment. She still felt restless, half wishing she was in some unnamed European hamlet, leaning over a trench, meticulously dusting soil particles away from an ancient patella or sacrum.

As she passed her bookshelves, it reminded her of the textbook proofing she still needed to finish. That task had given her fond flashbacks to her own student days, poring over bone morphology and joint classifications. Most of her original textbooks were still here, on the bottom shelf. On a whim, Brennan lifted one out, a thick and heavy anatomy volume, and took it back to the desk. Pushing aside the notes about her novel, she cracked it open. This page displayed the ulna and radius, in photos as well as drawings, both anterior and posterior views.

Brennan smiled, remembering her strategy for learning the anatomical features: she drew each bone, recreating the sketches in the book. First, tracing the outline, to get the proper proportions. Then, filling in the body of the bone, its shadings and grooves, it tubercules and processes. Finally, labeling each feature in small, precise print.

That method demanded the kind of intense attention to detail necessary for this job. And, next to handling actual bones in the lab, it helped her acquire an intimate knowledge of the anatomy.

Following the same nostalgic impulse that had prompted her to choose this book from the shelf, Brennan took a piece of blank paper from the tray of her printer, and a pencil from her drawer.

She began to sketch the bones of the forearm. First, their slight, graceful curve, forming a scaffold for the muscles. Then, firming the outline of the radius, how it began relatively narrow at the elbow and became robust toward wrist. The ulna's complementary shape: tapered near the wrist, and solid at the elbow, where the trochlear notch provided a hinge-like cup for the humerus to articulate.

Following the diagrams in the book, Brennan sketched the posterior view on one side of her paper, and the anterior view on the other. She added subtle lines of shading, to round out the distal end of the bone, and proximally, to make the trochlear notch appear concave.

In this drawing, of course, the bones were parallel, as they appeared in the palm-up anatomical position. She could picture how they looked in pronation, turning the hand over: the radius rolled around the ulna, so the bones appeared to cross each other.

Satisfied with her sketch, Brennan began labeling the significant areas. Here, at the ulna's proximal end, was the olecranon process, the sharp bone most people thought of as their elbow. Moving back toward the wrist, she labeled the styloid processes of both bones.

Then she realized she had forgotten to draw the interosseous membrane, and corrected the oversight. Angled lines, like a spider web, stretching between the radius and ulna.

Brennan had nearly completed the picture before the thought occurred to her. Here, about midway down the shaft of these bones—that was where Rawling's hands had seized her. And where, a week ago, she had insisted Booth do the same. Of course, the memory of these events did not reside in the bone, but in her brain and nerves. The muscle memory, Booth had said.

Brennan stopped with her pencil poised over the paper. The criminals had intruded into her life _again_. They had ruined this tranquil moment mingling art and science.

She grasped at that feeling she'd had as a student: how content yet excited she'd been. She'd savored the challenge, of how many things there were to see and do and learn.

But now, staring at her sketch under the circle of lamp light… These bones had become hers, not an anonymous, idealized version for a textbook.

Stubbornly, Brennan finished sketching the membrane between the radius and ulna.

Radius. Rawling. Ulna. Anders.

Her mouth set into a grim line. All right—if she could not ignore this, she would handle it. With a sort of perverse determination, she wrote the criminals' names, one on each bone.

Then she looked at the carefully executed drawing, marred by the men's identities.

Hoping she was not mentally unhinged, she gripped her pencil and scribbled forcefully over the names. Rawling and Anders, scratched out. Brennan scrawled over them until the letters were no longer legible. But now the bones were blotted with jagged lines of graphite, like wounds or thunder clouds.

Brennan chewed the inside of her lip. She couldn't leave it like that. She'd written herself into a corner.

What do you do when you reach a dead end in the novel? You revise. You backtrack, you erase and try again.

Brennan erased the dark scribbles, erased thoroughly, brushing away the rubber shavings. Finally the blemishes were reduced to faint shadows on the bones. Like, she thought wryly, healed injuries on an x-ray.

She had insisted to Angela and Booth that the assault was not as bad as other difficult experiences in her life. And perhaps it wasn't, but…there was a reason she had grouped all the events together. They were things that kept you awake at night. Things you had to keep in a box in your mind, and not remove very often, not if you wanted to stay healthy and sane.

This drawing…it made her face the fear of seeing permanent marks on herself. The way she'd thought about indelible ink marking her skin, everywhere Anders had pawed it.

Brennan poked the now-dull point of the pencil into the pad of her thumb. It left a smudge of gray, and a tiny, perfectly round indentation, that stayed for several seconds before the skin rebounded.

She found a sharpener in her drawer, and turned the pencil slowly, watching the blade shave away fibers and dust.

Then a thought struck her, and, like inspiration in writing, she knew she should follow it without over-analyzing.

She took the sharp pencil and wrote the criminals' names once more, but this time between the bones, within the angled fibers of the interosseous membrane. _Not _touching the actual bones, but snared, suspended.

Brennan made the lines thicker, until the two names were nearly unreadable. Anders and Rawling, trapped in the sturdy weave of fibers. The way Anders _was _trapped: behind bars, without bail, without the possibility of parole. And—whether she was being optimistic or superstitious—Rawling would soon join him.

Brennan pushed her chair a little way back from the desk. She considered her sketch, that had become more than a sketch. Faint marks on the shafts of the bone. Faint names enmeshed in the membrane.

It was an acceptable solution.

The drawing now depicted hope. Irrational as it may be, hope that both men would be caught. And that her brave words from today would prove true.

**

Booth called Angela's apartment that weekend.

He didn't even have to explain why, because Angela said, "Let me guess. You want to know about El Salvador. Or Brennan's foster father. Or both."

"Um…" Booth saw no reason to beat around the bush. "Angela, you get any better at reading people and you're going to put Sweets out of a job."

She did not laugh. Her voice was grave when she said, "All right… But give me a second to change phones, in the next room." Booth heard Hodgins speaking in the background. "Sorry, honey," Angela told him, "but I'd rather you not hear this."

Hodgins must have come closer, because Booth could make out what he said next. "Not hear what? You having phone sex with Booth?"

"No," Angela snorted. "Stuff about…Brennan."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. Ancient history. Here, hold the phone for me, okay?"

"Uh, dude," Hodgins came on the line, "you didn't hear that phone sex thing, right?"

"Okay," Angela picked up again. "Hodgey, hang up now, that's a good boy.

"Look, Booth…" She sighed. "I don't know if I should be telling you this."

Booth was standing in the doorway leading from his kitchen, and now he wandered into the living room. He was hoping that Angela's concern for Brennan, and her gossip-loving nature, would win out. "I get it," he said. "She would think it's invading her privacy. But I'm worried, and… I can't ask her flat out, you know that."

He walked past the sofa, toward his bookcase where pictures of Parker beamed from their frames. Next to them was Brennan's hardcover novel, and the blue and green mug she had painted.

Angela had made a noncommittal noise.

"I always kind of wondered," Booth told her, "what she went through with the foster system. I mean, whether it was just what you would expect, with feeling lost and unwanted, or whether there was actual…abuse."

"Well," Angela said, "she sort of told me, once. Of her own accord. Because you're right, you don't want to ask anything that's going to feel like probing. Okay," she sighed again. "The foster father thing."

Booth put out his hand and touched the mug Bones had given him. Lightly at first, on the rim, but then he gripped the handle as though bracing for an earthquake.

"It was maybe the second or third family she was placed with, I don't know. But I'll tell you what she told me." Angela made her voice inflectionless as she quoted Brennan. "It wasn't anything that would've put me at risk for a sexually transmitted disease, but it was rather unpleasant nonetheless."

Rather unpleasant. God, Bones, Booth thought. You do know about understatement.

He must have made some inarticulate sound, because Angela continued, trying to reassure him. "Okay, I don't think she got any of the…hardcore kinds of abuse. But maybe a sampler of them. You know, with the parents just being indifferent on one end of the spectrum, or handing out extra-harsh punishments on the other, and…" She said it quickly, "groping you in the hallway in the middle of the night."

Booth swore.

He tried to keep the scene from playing behind his eyes. A young, tousled Brennan, in sleepwear, in a dark hallway. A grown man who was supposed to be protecting her…

Booth stared at the spine of her book on the shelf. Its slick dust jacket, slightly worn at the edges. Her press photo on the back cover--he knew exactly what it looked like. Accomplished. Mysterious. Sexy.

"That was the only time," Angela said, "that she purposefully acted out, to try to get placed with a different family. And it worked, but she was afraid the plan would backfire and that…any disobedience would result in worse…consequences."

Just get me their names, Booth thought. Fifteen years after the fact, I don't care. I will track them down.

He took a deep breath. "I know," he said, "I'm doing a lousy job of remembering what she told us yesterday--not to dwell on the bad stuff in her past. But…" He clenched his teeth. "Just tell me the other thing too." Get it over with, he thought.

"El Salvador?"

Angela went silent for a second. "No," she said. "I gave you the foster care thing, and maybe I shouldn't have. That one, you're gonna have to ask her yourself."

Booth tried to picture that conversation. _So, Bones, tell me about El Salvador. What horrendous thing did you undergo that time? _

He turned to look out his window, where some kids were tossing a football on the patch of grass behind the apartment.

"For what it's worth," Angela was saying, "the two of you seem pretty cool, despite everything."

"Yeah," Booth admitted. "I was afraid, to be honest. I thought she would've pushed me away. You know, at any point before now. And she would've had every right to do it."

"No," Angela gently disagreed. "She cares about you too much. I mean, she doesn't consciously know it, but she does. She knew going off on that dig would've hurt you."

Booth didn't know what to say. His chest felt too tight and warm. Instead he watched the boys playing catch. They were a little older than Parker, and they dodged and lunged with reckless energy.

"Hey, there's something else," Angela said. "When we went out earlier this week, Brennan asked me something she's only ever asked once before. It was when we were getting ready to leave the club. We were both a little drunk, but she got all somber and… she wanted to know why I was her friend. Like, she's not good enough for me, like I'm doing her a favor." Her voice dripped with distaste and disbelief.

"What did you tell her?" Booth asked curiously. Outside, one kid had just dashed past the other, then dropped the ball and threw his arms up, in victory for his touchdown.

"Well, I gave her the best speech I could, under the circumstances. How generous she is, and sweet and funny. Brilliant, of course, and… surprising. How that's a rare thing, and how none of my sophisticated artist friends can make me laugh like she can, or," Booth could hear Angela smiling, "show me strange and wonderful views of the world like she can. I hope I remembered to say something about her good heart, her pure intentions… And that we learn from each other, because we're so different_."_

Booth watched the kids kicking through piles of dead leaves, momentarily forgetting the football.

"Of course, you know Brennan's line: she says that friendships are ephemeral, like everything else in life. But… I'm guessing she's afraid, Booth. That I'll run off to Paris, or the Caribbean, to sell art to rich snobs on vacation. That pretty soon I'll want to escape this murder and mayhem at the lab, and forget all about my crime-solving scientist friends here."

"Huh," Booth said, and decided to voice the idea just as it came to him. "Brennan's fear of people leaving…I'm wondering, does it apply to me too?"

Angela sounded thoughtful. "She hasn't said anything, but…probably yes.

"I've been trying to think what to do about this," Angela went on. "We can't try to contradict Bren's view of the world, because she'd just logic us to death. But…to keep telling her, at every opportunity, that we're not going anywhere? To just show her by example, how important she is? Because we both know she's a seeing-is-believing kind of girl."

Yes, Booth thought. But sometimes seeing isn't enough. Sometimes it has to be _feeling_.

He stood before his bookshelves again, looking at the mug Bones had given him. Its careful brushstrokes, undulating green and blue. He wanted to hold it in both hands. He wanted to put his lips on its porcelain, as though against her skin, and murmur promises he was afraid to voice.

"But why now?" he heard himself asking Angela. "Why do you think she brought this up now?"

"Well, because she's needed us. She's been very vulnerable. Actually, you both have. And…she doesn't like needing people. Neither of you do."

"Because it scares her," Booth finished the thought.

They both fell silent for a moment.

"If you want my advice," Angela said, "just call her up this weekend. Just take her out for dinner, or a drink or something. And talk about anything, that's not murder, or bad memories, or… catastrophes."


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N:** Friendly warning that I might be getting a little out of canon here. This is supposed to take place at some unspecified time in season 2-3, so it's before Con Man in the Meth Lab, yet I have Booth telling Brennan about his dad's drinking. I don't mean to usurp the glory of that episode, but knowing what we do about the characters, I couldn't leave it out. For the purposes of this story, let's assume Bren might have suspected his dad was violent, but they've never talked about it. So it's not meant to be a huge revelation, but more ways for them to bond.

**Part 34**

Booth took Angela's advice. That Saturday night, he called his partner. He wasn't sure he was ready, to be honest. He could use more time, to reflect on Angela's revelations (or rage over them), and then steel himself, to see Bones and not treat her with any added gentleness.

But he called.

"Want to get a drink with me?"

"Why?" she asked candidly. "We haven't closed our case."

"I don't know, Bones, I just… I felt like a beer, and thought you might… I just wanted to sit with you, that's all."

His answer was not rational, but it was honest, and she agreed to meet him in twenty minutes.

**

They sat quietly at the bar with their drinks. The establishment was a bit more seedy than the ones they usually frequented, but the beer was cold, music thumped in the background, and the dim-lit interior was comfortably anonymous.

In one corner, men with five o'clock shadows were playing pool, punctuating the game with friendly jibes or companionable cursing.

"I learned at Hodgins' place," Brennan said, with a nod at the pool table. But she showed no signs of wanting to go over and play, probably due to the cloud of blue cigarette smoke hanging by the ceiling.

"Were you a genius at that, like you are at everything?" Booth asked with a smile.

"Not really. I was…adequate."

Booth sipped his beer, the froth sliding down his throat in creamy bubbles. The plastic cover on the seat of his bar stool was cracked, and it poked him in the thigh.

He glanced at Brennan. Her hair looked extra sleek and wavy tonight. She was wearing a black shirt, with subtle vertical stripes that shone iridescent, like blackbird feathers.

He (reluctantly) turned his head to the other side of bar, watching people whirl and stomp on the dance floor.

He must have been sitting pensively for too long, because Brennan asked him about it.

"Booth, I notice you're being rather quiet. Usually that would mean you're upset about something, like a disturbing case. Or…" Her clear eyes seemed to pierce him. "About what I said yesterday."

He hunched his shoulders sheepishly. "Bones, you're getting pretty good at reading people. Or at least, me."

She regarded him calmly, and he paused to take a breath.

"Sometime," he said carefully, "will you tell me about what happened in El Salvador? Or…with your foster father?"

When he'd said _El Salvador_, her gaze dropped. She stared at her drink a while before answering.

"Maybe. For the first, I don't know about the second." Then she seemed to shake herself, and looked up at him. "After all, you told me about some of the things you did when… things that happened when you were a sniper."

He nodded, to acknowledge that it would be a fair trade. And grateful, that she had changed her wording from the things he _did_, to things that happened. Meaning they were not his fault. Should not be his guilt.

They sat silently, nursing their drinks.

Then he said, "Bones, I want you to know… You're not alone in some things. I, um… I know what it's like to not want to go home after school. For fear of what you might find."

Her eyes went to his, but this time he was the one looking fixedly into his beer.

"Because… my dad drank."

He thought how stupidly ironic it was, that he was staring into his own alcoholic beverage while telling her this.

She did not say anything, but he could feel her watching him.

A woman laughed from the dance floor, a loud sound in the brief hush before the next song started.

"You know," Brennan said softly, "instances of alcoholism, as well as abuse, occur across all socio-economic strata, in our country, and outside it."

Booth scratched his finger across the bar's surface, where a number of initials, hearts and swear words had been carved over the years.

"Anthropologically," Bones went on, "there are not many parallels to be drawn, where the child feels more like an adult, because it's the parental figure who behaves in an unstable, irresponsible fashion. Except, perhaps, in cultures where the children must work very hard to help secure the subsistence of the family, as in early agrarian societies. But that model isn't really comparable, because the offspring take adult responsibilities out of necessity, whereas…"

Booth hadn't intended to stop her, but she trailed off on her own. He knew these anthropological things were important to her, and maybe it would help her deal with a difficult experience, to explain it intellectually. In fact, she'd been surprisingly accurate about his own experience. _The child feels like an adult, because the parental figure… _

But she seemed to have given up on the academic tangent.

He looked at her questioningly, and now she gave a sheepish shrug, as if to admit that anthropology didn't always have the answers.

A slow, pulsing song had started, and couples swayed against each other on the dance floor.

"Booth." Her husky voice seemed to hit him in the stomach. She was speaking as though something had just occurred to her, and she would express it very cautiously.

"You had to worry about other people, in your family. Your younger brother? I can't imagine how… I think you would have protected him. And that would be so much worse than being alone. I mean, Russ was older, and he wasn't there. The foster system, it's… What if I'd had a younger sister? If we'd been able to stay together, I would've had to shield her from…"

Brennan had been resting one hand on the bar, but dropped it to her knee, fingers scrunching tightly into the fabric.

And she would have done it, Booth thought. She would have diverted that pervert's attention onto herself, to protect someone else. Just as he had diverted his father's attention…

But on the other point, she was very wrong.

"Bones, no," he said. "I mean, yes, you protect them. You worry about them, you fight with them. But it's never _worse_." He held her eyes. "You're not alone. You _have _them. The company. The love."

He was not just talking about family now, and she felt it.

She blinked slowly, and Booth saw how the bar lights defined her cheekbones and made her hair gleam.

Brennan looked away, finally. The two of them sipped their beers. The music lilted, the singer's voice sliding down the notes with romantic abandon.

"Sometime," Bones echoed the careful tone he had used earlier, "maybe you could tell me something… else about your father. And maybe… I could tell you something in return."

He was almost afraid to breathe. "Yeah, Bones. I think that would be…"

But he couldn't say what that would be. Healthy? Agonizing? Intimate.

Brennan nodded as if she understood perfectly.

The moment was broken by the bartender, coming to refill their mugs. Booth watched the dark gold liquid gurgle into his glass.

I have totally failed, he thought, to follow Angela's advice. Not to talk about bad memories or catastrophes.

An argument had sprung up between the pool players. He and Bones listened to the debaters, who were none too sober, nor articulate in their cases. After hearing one particularly asinine comment, Booth glanced at his partner with the beginnings of a grin. The other player tried to respond cleverly, but belched instead. His compatriots decided that this was better than the argument, and that they should begin a new sort of competition.

Brennan shook her head at their ludicrous behavior, but she started to chuckle, and Booth joined in.

Then she took a swig of beer, and plunked the mug back onto the bar with a resolute thud. "Do you want to dance?"

Booth looked up with some alarm. "What?"

"Dance." She cocked her head at the other couples. "You know, for fun."

"Um, yeah, I'm familiar with the concept, Bones."

She had already slid off the bar stool. "It'll be like when we went to Washington state for that cannibal case, and everyone in the bar was pumping me for information. Or maybe just hitting on me, as you said."

Booth grinned, feeling his gloom, and surprise at her offer, dissipate.

"Oh yeah," he egged her on, "because you were the best looking thing in Aurora."

Best looking thing here too, he thought. Even if this is metropolitan D.C., not some small town in the backwoods.

"Okay, Bones." He gallantly offered her his arm. "Let's pretend it's the Pacific north woods, and we're having an awesome time investigating people getting eaten by bears and cannibals."

The slow song had been replaced by a rollicking one, and they strode onto the dance floor with friendly enthusiasm. Booth clasped Brennan's warm hand, his other resting on her back just by her shoulder. Before long, however, his hand had slid down to what felt like its natural resting place: that curve where her waist met the roundness of her hip.

This bar, Booth decided, does remind me of Aurora. The difference is, no one's trying to cut in this time. His hand pressed more confidently on Brennan's waist, through the silky fabric of her shirt.

And I was the one who ended up with her, anyway.

Except for Charlie the overnight guy.

The other couples danced with more fervor than skill. Booth swung them around to avoid a collision, and Brennan's hip rocked briefly into his.

This time, he thought, there are no hot overnight guys to distract you.

But--hell. He would gladly listen to her talk about an entire lineup of alluring postal workers, if, in exchange, Anders could be erased from history.

**

They danced through three songs, until another slow one came on, and Booth begged off, claiming to be thirsty.

"Well, you should really have water, and not beer," Brennan advised as they returned to their bar stools. "Alcohol has a dehydrating effect."

"It's okay, Bones, I think I'll survive."

Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a bit less sleek than it had been. She was eyeing him in a most disconcerting way. "I see you have your shirt slightly unbuttoned. It's that 'bar look,' right?"

He tried to ignore her un-partner-like gaze. How much beer had they had, anyway? "Yeah, Bones," he bluffed. "When in Rome, right?"

It took her a second to complete the idiom in her mind. "Yes. It often helps to adopt the local customs when attempting to blend into a society… What?"

Booth was laughing silently. "Nothing, Bones." He put his elbows on the bar and looked sideways at her. "I just love the way you talk sometimes. Like--back in Aurora, you must have corrected people five times about--what was it? An autopsy on an animal is called…?"

"A necropsy. And I believe it was only two times." She sipped her beer, then glanced back at him. "It's easy to remember if you look at the word itself. The prefix 'auto' refers to one's own species," she explained. "So in order for there to be an animal _autopsy_, it would have to be a bear performing it on another bear. Obviously, that is impossible, so you can see why I strive for accurate terminology."

Booth was chuckling again. Typical Bones, he thought. So matter of fact, and so loveable.

Although his amusement puzzled Brennan, it didn't stop her from responding. Her mouth curved in a way that was both questioning and seductive. He could tell his eyes were sparkling at her, by the way her gaze glinted back.

Still chuckling, he asked, "Why didn't you just tell me that the first time?"

She shrugged. "Maybe you would've looked it up for yourself."

"Nah," he decided. "I'd rather let you correct me."

**

Booth went to bed that night and dreamed they were back in Aurora. Actually, he dreamed first that he had to pee, which was the truth, after drinking one too many beers with his partner. But instead of waking up, he found himself in the bar's restroom, trying to make out the graffiti on the wall. The local bar had merged with the one in Washington state, and he wasn't sure what timeframe he was in, but only what he was seeing at the moment.

_In a bathroom lit by a 25-watt bulb the blue_

_genitals from a Bic fine-point look_

_like cave paintings in Lascaux only less_

_articulate. I'm standing where and doing_

_what you'd expect after four_

_cognacs I drank as reminders…_

Of when I was a sniper, and to never become my father.

But Bones was waiting for him back in the bar. He left the bathroom and started down a shadowy corridor.

…_I approach _

_a table burned with initials_

…_and nod to a woman _

_with a scar from a bear_

_on her thigh._

He knew, in the dream's reality, that a bear had attacked Brennan, during their trip to Aurora.

He was still trying to get back to their table. Walking through a hallway that looked like the Jeffersonian… Except it was also his high school biology room, with microscopes, and charts on the wall, and the plastic model of the Visible Man:

_showing me everything he's made of,_

_the red parts, the blue tubes_

_that carry promises from heart to brain._

Promises to Brennan, he thought, but didn't know what that meant.

She had come upon the bear unexpectedly, walking alone in the woods. Booth did not like to think about what a close call it had been. About his guilt for not being there.

And yet, it felt like he _had _been there: he fuzzily remembered the trees, close overhead like a ceiling. He'd been chained to a tree, numb, and he couldn't see her, couldn't do anything. Could only hear her scream, when one swipe of the bear's massive claws laid open the muscle of her thigh.

But it had not been fatal. No vital organs damaged.

In the dim-lit bar he had finally reached their table, and sat down across from Brennan. Still, he was not seeing her. He saw what had happened to her.

…_I'm asking the woman how_

_she escaped or if she looked_

_back at the steam rising from her trail_

_of blood on snow. She doesn't say_

_if her soul slipped through her teeth_

_and flickered like an aurora, an inquisition_

_of light she followed to camp_

_and morphine and dreams_

_chased by a breath she only wanted to touch._

Booth woke with his face damp from tears or sweat.

Bones! he thought.

He sat up in bed, pushing the covers away from his overheated body. He wanted to go to the phone and call her, to hear her voice and make sure she was all right.

Do you have a scar on your thigh? He could hear himself asking. From a bear, or…anything?

But, no. They had not been to Aurora in winter, with snow on the ground.

They _had _been to a D.C. bar. They had talked and danced.

He got up a bit shakily, and padded to the bathroom. As he reached for the doorknob, a spark leaped out, crackling for a split second between his hand and the metal.

There was no need to call Brennan in the middle of the night and make her worry about his mental state.

There was no bear attack. Scars were only metaphorical. He hoped.

**

**A/N: **I cannot take credit for knowing the significance of _autopsy_. That was explained in a book I referenced earlier in this story, _Stiff _by Mary Roach.

The italicized excerpts are from the poem "Rapture" by Bob Hicok, from his 2001 book _Animal Soul_.

My discovery of this poem is almost the sole reason this chapter exists. Really, the selected lines held my brain hostage until I came up with a scenario that allowed me to include them in the story.

Why am I writing so many dreams in this fic? No, I'm not a fan of Freud or dream theory, but the premise lets you take more risks and be more experimental. You can include more variety of emotions, perspectives and images, and readers will (right?) more readily suspend disbelief. Anything is possible!


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: **Well, I was debating about the order of the next plot developments. Another case of, I know what needs to happen, but when, exactly? I decided that now, rather than later, was the time to shake things up a little. Or a lot. Evil grin.

**Part 35**

Booth and Brennan stood in the dark-paneled viewing room, looking at the young man on the other side of the glass.

"You don't think he could be our guy?" Bones asked. They had just completed an interview with the jealous teammate of their victim, Serge Gnahoui.

"Nah," Booth dismissed him. "He was fed up, yeah. He had a problem with a couple guys on his team. But he's no murderer.

"Now, this Samson guy," Booth held up a scrap of paper with another teammate's name on it. "If he was heard arguing with Serge not long before he got killed…"

"This man could simply have been trying to deflect attention from himself, by giving us another suspect."

"Could be," Booth said. "But we're going to find out."

They left the room and headed back to his office. Walking shoulder to shoulder with Bones, Booth thought of the dream he'd had that weekend. Some of the intensity had faded, but images remained.

Brennan's eyes in a smoky bar—the only clear thing. A bear, and scars. Blood on snow. The feeling of escaping: a close call. He and Bones had both done that, he realized. Becoming the people they were, after rocky childhoods.

He grasped her elbow, to steer them around a cluster of agents emerging from a conference room. Then they were at his office, and before he could reach for the door, she had opened it for him. Booth tried to let her go first, like he always did, but she simply held the door, waiting. He smiled at her as he went in, but it must have been more tenuous than he'd intended, because her answering smile gave only half its potential wattage.

**

"When do you expect your son will get back from vacation, Mrs. Samson?" Booth asked.

He and Brennan were sitting in the living room, questioning the parents of another former teammate. It was a typical suburban room: several houseplants, cozy clutter on the shelves, and some family photos, including one of the son wearing his newly-minted professional lacrosse uniform.

"Well, Dave really deserves the time off, after his ankle injury," Linda Samson explained. "It was tough on him, having to miss last season—only his second one, since turning professional. But we talked to him on Saturday, and he said he'd be back in a couple days, by Thursday or Friday."

Booth nodded, and continued to ask what they knew of their son's relationship with the victim. Linda hadn't known Serge very well, but prompted her husband Greg to share his opinion.

After he had said a few words, Brennan spoke up. Booth shot her a reproachful glance; the father seemed like he had more to say, and she might have interrupted him from something useful.

"Excuse me," she said, "but I must have had too much water on the trip here. Could you point me to your bathroom, please?"

Booth could tell she was lying. Their drive hadn't taken that long; neither of them had had more than a few gulps of water. This was a ruse of some kind, but why she wanted to go snooping through their house was beyond him.

Mrs. Samson politely showed Brennan where to go, and Booth tried to sit patiently, making small talk. If you're searching for something, Bones, you better not take so long that they get suspicious… But she was back within a reasonable amount of time, and whatever she'd been looking for, she had found. As she sat back down, she glanced at him, eyes snapping with the satisfaction of confirming some conclusion.

Booth decided they weren't going to get any further in this investigation until they talked to the son, so they made their goodbyes. He gave the parents his card, and confirmed that he had their correct contact information.

He waited until they were back in the truck, pulling out of the subdivision. "Bones, what were you doing back there, snooping around?"

"Oh," she said, "was I unconvincing? Did they suspect something?"

"No," he admitted, "you were convincing. For the average person. Just not," he gave her a quick smile, "for me. So, what was it?"

"I wanted to check their medicine cabinet. I thought the father might be taking some kind of anti-anxiety medication, or an anti-psychotic. Did you notice how his response times were just a fraction too slow? And the way his wife would say his name before asking a question, to make sure she had his attention? I thought that could be a signal of some condition, or a side effect of medication."

"I did notice," Booth said, "that he seemed a little slow on the uptake, but I just figured it was how the guy naturally was."

"The medication," Bones paused for dramatic effect, "was clozapine, for schizophrenia."

"So, the dad has a mental illness, fine." Booth's tone made it clear he didn't understand the relevance. "What we really need is to talk to the kid, because he's the one who knew our victim. Unless…" He glanced at Bones with an inkling of a squint-like idea. "Does this run in families? You think the son had some mental breakdown and killed our victim in a fit of rage, or whatever?"

Brennan lifted one shoulder. "I don't engage in speculation. I just know that I behave the same in the field as I do in the lab. And that means collecting all the data that I can."

Booth nodded, but couldn't resist getting the last word. "Well, you don't behave _exactly _the same," he pointed out. "I have yet to see you kick someone in the balls at the Jeffersonian."

**

The next day they worked on separate leads, while waiting for Dave Samson to get back from his trip. ("Yeah," Booth grumbled, "let's make sure this possible _murderer _gets every minute of enjoyment out of his vacation time. But," he concluded, "we'll have agents waiting to pick him up at the airport and take him in for questioning.")

At the lab, Brennan examined the victim's bones in more detail, and shared on-going reports with the team, as Cam and Hodgins analyzed the soft tissue and particulates.

Booth, in the meantime, talked to more of Serge's teammates, along with a coach, professor, and former girlfriend. The only thing that turned up, according to the coach and fellow players, was the possibility that Serge was involved in a plot to fix the results of several games. "It was some kind of gambling or bribery scheme," the coach said, "but it didn't go through, as far as I know. There were accusations, that guys were attempting to win by a certain number of points… but no one could come up with proof." The teammate was equally uncertain. "I can't be sure it was him," he told Booth. "It could just as well have been Samson."

Booth added this to the list of things to grill the kid about when he returned.

**

Wednesday morning, Brennan got to the Jeffersonian early. She was just setting her things in her office, when her cell phone rang. It was Booth.

"Bones, where are you?" he demanded.

"At the lab. I—"

"I'm coming over," he said gruffly. She was instantly on the alert. The last time he'd sounded like this…

"I have something to tell you. I don't know yet if—I'll just be there. In ten minutes." He hung up.

Brennan paced around her office. This couldn't be about their current case, not the way Booth sounded. It had to be about Rawling. Or else, something had happened with Anders. Something good for him, and therefore bad for them?

Brennan dug her fingernails into her palms. Booth said only ten minutes, she thought. If it turns out to be any longer, I'm going to rebuke him for keeping me in suspense—again.

**

It was fourteen minutes, not ten. Brennan counted them all.

She was standing on the lab platform, trying to pretend she was studying the victim's bones, but she was really listening for the sound of the doors opening, and the ping of the access card.

That was fruitless, however, because everyone else was in the process of arriving. Brennan had to force herself not to look up at every sound, as the other team members drifted in, putting their coats in offices, lunches in the fridge, and chatting over steaming cups of coffee.

Finally, when Brennan glanced up, Booth was stepping onto the lab platform.

"Hey, Booth," Angela called. "I didn't know you were coming today." Then she saw his face, and her cheerful expression vanished.

He stalked across to where Brennan stood at the exam table. His phone was clutched in one hand, and his tie was knotted loosely, as though he'd rushed through it.

He didn't look at anyone but Bones.

"Rawling's been sighted," he said in clipped syllables.

Someone, maybe Cam, gave a small "Oh."

Brennan looked unsurprised, and as grim as her partner. A second later they turned, by unspoken agreement, toward her office.

"Hey, wait," Angela objected, "we all want to hear this."

Cam put a hand on her arm. "Brennan deserves to know first."

**

"About midnight last night, he robbed a gas station in nowhere, Texas." Booth had begun his explanation as soon as they were alone in her office.

"That's not a legitimate place name, is it?" Brennan asked. "You were just being…?"

"It's somewhere west of Abilene. They think he drove southeast through New Mexico, then started cutting straight south through Texas."

"He's trying to get to Mexico, like Anders was?"

"Yeah, but he must've run out of cash. Had to make a crime stop along the way. Fleming—he called me first thing this morning—has the security footage from the gas station, if there's time for us to see it."

Booth clenched a fist. "I _knew _Rawling wouldn't last very long without Anders—his planning, and the easy money—before he got desperate and did something stupid." He couldn't stand still; he started to pace her office.

Just like in the Quantico hallway, Brennan thought, as if his motion forced her to be the one staying still. She stood by the end of the sofa, feeling the almost-familiar sense that everything had tilted off balance.

"They're still tracking his getaway car," Booth said, "after he holed up somewhere for a few hours. But it's pretty hopeful they won't lose him. And there's even more reason to catch him now. He must've gotten too impatient—shot the cashier at the gas station. Guy's in critical condition and might not—"

At that moment his phone rang, and he looked at it swiftly. "Fleming told me he'd call; he's flying out there any minute, to take charge of—" He put the phone to his ear.

If you don't, Brennan thought, put it on speaker phone this time, so I can hear what's going on…

"You're leaving when?" Booth asked. "How much room on the plane? …Do you think—? …Yeah. No, that's fine. …At the Hoover? I'll be there."

He snapped the phone shut and was striding out of the office.

"Booth, what are you doing?"

"Fleming thinks I can go along without anyone getting fired. Just an onlooker, like last time, but—"

Brennan caught up to him next to one corner of the lab platform. "No, you are not doing this again! I will not be left behind!"

"Bones—" he warned, but did not stop walking.

Brennan managed, even in her haste, to remember the chain of command. "Cam," she called up to the lab platform, "can you spare me for the day?"

Dr. Saroyan put the pieces together quickly. "Yes. By all means. Go and get that bastard."

"No, Cam—" Booth swung around, halting near the entrance to the platform. "Bones, you're not—"

"Don't tell me what I will or will not do!"

"We don't have time for this! Can't you just, for once—" He made a quelling motion with his hand, then turned in frustration and resumed striding for the exit.

Brennan kept up with him easily. "No, Booth! You're the one— First, you go off to the Virginia offices without even a word about me coming along, then you make me stay while you go to California, and now you want to fly to Texas so you can shoot Rawling as some sort of revenge, or some service to me?"

They had reached the sliding doors, but it was Brennan's words that made him stop.

"_What?_"

"You heard me. You just want to go along so you can have some chance for retribution. But it's not going to happen!"

They were facing off in front of the frosted glass door emblazoned with the Jeffersonian logo. And by now, they had the attention of the entire lab.

Booth lowered his voice and hissed, "Bones, I am just trying to see this through to the end. And do what I always do, to keep you safe."

"Well, maybe I don't need you to!" Her eyebrows arched into angry lines, and a few wisps of hair had escaped the untidy knot at the back of her head.

Booth grunted and pulled her through the doors, until they were a few steps down the hall, out of sight and earshot.

Brennan shook free from his grip on her arm. "They're not going to let you have your gun," she insisted, "and even if they did, I will not let you kill someone on my behalf!"

Booth still saw the fury in her eyes, but this vehemence was different than anger _at _him. If he'd had time to analyze it, he might have seen its protective, guarding quality. But right now, he heard only the argument.

"No, Bones—It means going into an unknown situation, and you are not coming along. We have no idea what Rawling might or might not do. I know he's not the smart one, but we can't tell what kind of—"

"Booth, what kind of danger could there be? If either of us is going to go," Brennan reasoned, "we'd be surrounded by a dozen armed FBI agents at all times. There's very little chance that—"

Booth was shaking his head, still not hearing what she said. "If I can't have a gun," he repeated, "and there's Rawling, leading a car chase or weapons standoff or whatever he's going to do—I am _not _putting myself in that situation with you again. Because I'm the one who's supposed to protect you, and—"

"Will you stop talking about protecting me?" Her voice rose, echoing on the bare white walls of the corridor. "I can take care of myself, just like I have done, long before you came along. Besides, you didn't do such a good job of it when it counted, now did you?"

Brennan paused for breath, not knowing where those words had come from, but suddenly unable to stop.

"It's your pride that's hurt!" she cried. "Because _I_ got us out of that suite, with the knots and the fighting. You didn't have a chance to be the hero. And you can't stand it, can you?"

She hadn't realized she was going to say it. But somehow, it was true: a part of her _did _hold him responsible, for failing to protect her. If only because _he_ so clearly felt that way.

Those words she'd just said—they hurt him. She didn't need to see his body language to know: his spine stiffened, and a muscle jumped along his jaw.

Brennan was too incensed to feel guilt right now; but still, she softened her approach.

"Either we both go, or we both stay." Her voice was quietly intense. "We're _partners_. Are you going to let me _be_ your partner, or not?"

They stared at each other. Booth couldn't answer, the turmoil clear on his face: hurt and anger and impatience. A touch of sentiment at her appeal—or manipulative use of the word—_partners_.

But mainly anger. He took a step toward her, the way he would try to intimidate an uncooperative suspect. Even though he knew, _Bones doesn't intimidate_.

Her chin came up, and she stood her ground against his threatening demeanor.

"If you want to keep me here," she said through clenched teeth, "you're going to have to physically restrain me. And I dare you to try, because—I'll kick you in the testicles, like you were some scumbag suspect."

They stood there, breathing hard and glaring at each other.

Booth saw the defiance on her face, but also a hint of fear: that he _would _try to keep her here, because then she would have to decide whether to carry out her threat.

She should know I'd never lay a hand on her. But…

Bones was looking at him like she had at the inn, when he'd gotten rough with that employee, and she felt she had to be on guard for whatever he might do next.

It was that uncertainty, more than her anger, that made his own ire deflate. He stepped back from her personal space, and held up his palms in a defensive, calming gesture. "All right," he growled. "Come on, then. You know I won't fight you, Bones."

**

**A/N: **I did some basic googling about schizophrenia meds, but took a little poetic license on the side effects. But I bet the rest of this chapter made you forget all about that case by now, huh?

I was again inspired by lines from _Outlander _by Diana Gabaldon. In Bren's angry speech, she was always going to threaten 'kicking in the testicles,' but I didn't know she would say the rest, about failing to protect, and his pride. But I figured, why not go full throttle with the angst?

Here is the original Gabaldon paragraph from which I borrowed:

"It's your bloody pride that's hurt!" I shouted. "I saved us both from those deserters in the glade, and you can't stand it, can you? You just stood there! If I hadn't had a knife, we'd both be dead now!" Until I spoke the words, I had no idea that I had been angry with him for failing to protect me from the English deserters. In a more rational mood, the thought would never have entered my mind. It wasn't his fault, I would have said. But now I realized that fair or not, I _did _somehow feel that it was his responsibility to protect me, and that he had failed me. Perhaps because _he _so clearly felt that way. (386)


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: **I've never been to Texas, but Google maps is awesome for this sort of thing. In the street view, you can actually see what this highway looks like. (Well, I was going to fudge this part anyway, but now I know I can do so and still be kind of accurate.) Basically, the towns I mention are real, but the location of the showdown isn't meant to be an actual place.

Special thanks to SimonJester479, for serving as my expert technical advisor on military and law enforcement scenarios.

**Part 36**

Booth had arranged to meet Fleming at the Hoover building, then leave for the airport with a small team of agents. He and Brennan made the drive in tense, almost total silence. But it wasn't long before her powers of inquiry kicked in again.

"Why don't they let the local Texas law enforcement handle this?" she asked. "I know _we're _not supposed to go, but why is Fleming even going?"

"Jurisdiction," Booth grunted. "Rawling's wanted in several states, on a bunch of serious charges. Rather than let them fight it out, just have the Feds fly in and take him off their hands. Problem solved."

Then he glanced dourly at the dashboard clock. "I said I'd be there in twenty minutes, but we've already argued through half of it." He reached to turn on the car's lights and siren.

**

The corridors of the FBI building were more chaotic than they should have been at this time of the morning. Agents in FBI jackets milled about, weaving among men in suits holding coffee cups and folders.

Before Booth realized it, Cullen had appeared. There was no time to duck and hide, so he just stood dumbly next to Bones and Fleming, who was talking on his cell phone.

"Oh, Christ," Cullen said when he saw the partners. "You want to go along again," he glowered, "and take her with you?"

Booth braced himself. But Cullen threw up his hands in a harried manner, and said, "Fine. If anyone asks, you never had official permission. Here, at least put an FBI jacket on," he jerked his head at Brennan, "so you don't _look _like a civilian." Then he barked, "Fleming! These two say one word, or make one move out there, and it's on your head."

The other agent gulped, and Cullen disappeared back into the crowd of people.

Booth finally realized why Rawling's case, or their tagging along, was not the biggest thing on Cullen's mind right now.

"He seems rather preoccupied," Brennan observed, as if reading her partner's thoughts.

"He has meetings with some government bigwigs today," Booth explained. "I don't even know what it's for exactly. Funding, national security—who knows. But he obviously doesn't like having to manage that _and _oversee this."

They stepped out of the way as Cullen stomped past in the other direction, muttering, "Why the hell couldn't he have waited until tomorrow to stage his breakaway?"

**

Before they crammed into the backseat of Fleming's car, someone shoved a jacket and cap into Brennan's hands, the navy blue fabric printed with yellow _FBI_ block letters. A second car of agents followed them to the airport, where they all boarded a twelve-person government jet.

Before long, they had reached cruising height, with the plane's nose pointed southwest. In one corner of the cabin, Fleming opened his laptop on a table, and motioned Brennan and Booth over to it. They leaned in to see the black and white security footage from the gas station.

There was no sound, but they watched a figure emerge from the blackness outside, into the glaring lights of the shop. Even with a knit hat pulled low over his ears, Rawling was unmistakable.

He jabbed his gun at the panicked desk clerk, just the way he had jabbed it at them.

"Truth is, we don't need you to positively ID him," Fleming said. "We got enough of a match from witnesses calling it in, and some of the first people on the scene were from the Texas National Guard. Rawling was long gone, but they saw this video and—"

"National Guard," Booth said, "isn't one of their units…?"

Brennan, too, was recalling the diving hawk emblem that Angela had first identified, and that led them to Kaczmarek.

"Yeah," Fleming said, "the unit Anders' hallway security guy was in. Turns out, Kaczmarek took Rawling out for drinks a couple years back, so he met all these National Guard buddies.

"And we just had word as we were leaving D.C.—sounds like Rawling tried to contact some of them, probably looking to bribe or pull some strings, to get him across the border into Mexico. But," Fleming concluded, "the Guard guys said in no uncertain terms, they're helping us put him in jail, not helping him break the law."

Just then his cell phone chirped, and the partners returned to their seats to wait out the flight. "I'm glad," Brennan said, "the Guard members decided to adhere to the dictates of the law, rather than whatever bonds of fraternity they may have forged with Rawling."

Booth simply grunted in response.

**

Fleming had his phone glued to his ear for most of the flight. But after one conversation, he got off long enough to give a dire report. "They know where Rawling is, all right, but now it's turned into a car chase."

With effort, Booth kept quiet. He wanted to demand how they'd managed to screw this up. How'd they let it get this far?—instead of apprehending him quickly and quietly, so as not to endanger anyone.

"We don't even know where we're touching down now," Fleming was saying. "It'll have to depend on how this chase goes."

**

The plane ride turned out to be a bumpy one. It was a small craft, with two rows of two seats each, and its size meant that it got tossed around more than a larger plane.

The pilot came on the intercom to apologize and explain why there was so much turbulence. Something about air currents, Booth heard, with cold air in the east meeting warm air from the south.

Bottom line: everyone got queasy.

Brennan was sitting by the window, next to Booth. When he would glance at her, he saw that she wasn't faring any better than he was. They both had to close their eyes and swallow periodically, when the plane dipped and their stomachs dropped out again. A couple agents had to make hasty trips to the bathroom, but at least no one was forced to use the air sickness bags.

**

Brennan dug her fingers into the scratchy fabric of the armrest. Her ears roared and her stomach felt like it was somehow capable of traveling between her throat and her intestines.

This is crazy, she thought. Why am I doing this? Why are _we_, when there's nothing we can do in Texas, and we have a real case to solve in D.C.? True, this news had come during a convenient lull in the investigation… But she was realizing that she might not want to be on this trip after all.

It had been a rushed and irrational decision. She was only going because Booth was, more out of a stubborn insistence that they _be _partners, than from a more legitimate desire to see justice served.

When she glanced at Booth, he looked as queasy as she felt, but he also looked…hard. There was no warmth in his expression, no ironically raised brow if she caught his eye. She felt like she couldn't reach him at all.

And she deserved it, after the things she had said. Or maybe, he was just so focused on the current mission (even if he couldn't take an active role in it), that he was shutting out everything else.

**

About halfway through the flight, Fleming announced another sinister development.

"The car chase is over," he said, standing up and holding onto a seat back for balance. "But now we've got a hostage situation. They think Rawling just about ran out of gas, going through the middle of nowhere, but he got close to some small towns. Ended up at this building off the highway—like a showroom for cars, but with tractors and farm equipment. And…" Fleming rubbed his brow. "For some reason, they couldn't catch him before he went inside. There's a convention going on, so the place is full of people."

Booth pictured Rawling as he'd looked in the security video. His small eyes angry and desperate under the hat. Waving his gun, this time, at a crowd of unsuspecting visitors.

He and Bones exchanged a pained glance. More people could be hurt, was their unspoken worry. On top of the ones hurt already. Miranda Charles and her family. Now, the gas station clerk. Not to mention, Booth thought, me and my partner.

**

Once they were over Texas, Fleming went up to confer with the pilot, and to get permission to land at a small county airport.

"No, Odessa's too far away." He stood at the front of the cabin bellowing into his phone. "What's the next town south? Okay, and where exactly…? Yeah. That'll work." Stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Fleming announced to the plane at large, "Crane County airport. Some 200 miles southwest of Abilene, on the outskirts of this town. And the showroom where Rawling's taken hostages is about twenty miles further south, almost to the next town."

Their plane touched down on the tarmac under a glaring Texas sun. Stepping down the narrow staircase from the cabin, Brennan was glad she had thought to grab her bag from her office before chasing after Booth, because it meant she had her sunglasses. Still, she squinted at the light glinting off two police cars that were waiting to transport them to the hostage site.

"Another half hour of travel," Fleming groaned, as he got into the passenger side of one car, with Brennan and Booth climbing into the back. "Less, if we go lights and sirens, right?" He turned to the driver, a local police officer, who nodded grimly and, turning onto the main road, gunned it down the highway.

**

Booth stared out at the intense midday sunshine. Puffy clouds dotted the horizon, and he could swear that was actual tumbleweed alongside the highway. They sped south, passing scrubby plants under power lines, low hills in the distance, and cattle behind fences.

The other cop car followed them, packed with the agents Fleming had brought along. Some of them, Booth knew, were trained snipers, and he had the unfortunate feeling that their skills would be needed. If only it were _his _that were needed…

The driver was talking to Fleming about the situation they were going into. "The hostage negotiator should already be there," the man said. "He was called in from our local agency, and they've also got a commander from the National Guard, so you have his squad at your disposal."

Booth glanced over at Bones. After their motion sickness from the plane ride, she didn't look like she felt much better. But Booth did. He could feel his sniper training kicking in. Quelling the nausea, tamping down the anxiety to manageable levels, so he'd be alert but not jittery. It was the body preparing itself, even if his mind told him, this isn't your mission.

**

**A/N: **I meant to break this chapter at a less cliff-hangery place, but I don't have enough of it written! This section is more painstaking than I expected, since it means combining several disparate elements: law enforcement logistics, character reactions, and appropriate POV. Nonetheless, I shall persevere. :)


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N:** Once again, I would like to thank SimonJester479, for sending numerous private messages, to advise me on military/snipers/hostage scenarios, to make sure I didn't goof up the plausibility, and to provide the inspiration for one of Booth's experiences in this chapter.

(This didn't fit with the story, but I still would've liked to have Booth explain 'blue falcon' to Brennan. For instance, if Rawling or Kaczmarek had been ratted out by old comrades: _"Buddy fuck, Bones." "Excuse me?" _ "_Military lingo. A guy who screws over the team for his own selfish reasons… And then the team is more than happy to screw him over in return_.")

**Part 37**

They arrived on the scene. A wide dirt parking lot sprawled before a big gray building. Civilian cars formed neat rows, while law enforcement vehicles had parked at angles, blocking off half the lot.

Officers in several types of uniforms were strung along the line of cars, and Fleming headed for the largest cluster of people.

Brennan exited the car with relief, inhaling fresh air into her lungs. The sun's heat touched her skin like a weight, but the breeze was cool enough to justify wearing the FBI jacket. Walking across the gravel behind Booth and Fleming, she felt loose strands of hair tickle her face, in the gusts of wind that stirred up dust devils at the edges of the lot.

Someone had set up a computer monitor on the trunk of a police car, and Fleming was already peering at it.

"They've patched into the building's security system," Booth told Brennan in an undertone.

Fleming demanded a status report, and fired questions at the other uniformed men.

"He's asking for a police car for safe transport into Mexico," someone said, but Brennan found herself losing the conversation as she tried to make out the scene on the monitor.

The black and white image took up the full screen, and she could see, over Fleming's shoulder, that the building consisted of one large main room. It was lined with tractors and other farm equipment, leaving the center free for people to move around.

And there were people: dark shapes huddled on the floor, behind a standing figure.

Rawling.

He wore what looked like the same dark jacket from the gas station, but no hat. He would brandish his gun at the collected hostages, then turn to scan the windows at the front and sides of the room.

Brennan looked up at the building, but couldn't see anything in those front windows, aside from clean new tractors in shades of green and yellow.

Someone tapped the keypad to change the display, so that half the screen showed a wide view, while the other half displayed a closer view of the criminal. His blunt features looked pinched under the crew cut.

Serves you right, Brennan thought. Now you're the one under pressure. Not in control. You think you are, threatening innocent people, but you won't be for long.

Fleming was having a powwow with his sniper-trained agents, and the National Guard commander. A moment later, the snipers were checking their rifles, and adjusting the earpieces that would allow them to communicate with the rest of the team.

Something was about to happen, but Brennan realized she hadn't heard the plan. It wasn't like her, to be so unfocused.

She turned to Booth, and he took his attention away from the officers long enough to explain what was going on. He leaned closer, and she could see her reflection in the dark lens of his sunglasses. He was holding out a piece of paper, a pamphlet from this farm equipment dealer, that included a map of the building.

He pointed out where the snipers would go. "They can sneak in the back door, and take these stairs. See, the second floor is like a big U-shape that overlooks the first. They're going to crawl along the wall, one guy on either side of the room, and try for their shots from there."

Brennan saw, on the map, that the second floor was labeled _A Brief History of Farming Equipment—Museum_. From the computer screen, she could see the second level, essentially two wide walkways on either side of the building. They were open to the floor below, separated only by a metal railing. Along it, she could just make out some vintage tractors on display, along with panels of informational text.

**

They waited.

Brennan and Booth stood uneasily behind the uniformed officials, staying out of the way. Radio communications blurted periodically across the lot. Sunshine glared down, making everything look flat and somehow unreal.

The hostage negotiator had been conversing with Rawling via cell phone. He was a gray-haired man with a deep, calm voice, but Brennan thought that his expressions, and muttered comments to his assistants, did not appear optimistic about the role of diplomacy.

She watched Booth watching the monitor. The snipers had circled the building without incident, and were mounting the back stairs. Booth was shifting his weight from foot to foot, and from her position slightly behind him, it was clear how much tension he held in his shoulder and trapezius muscles.

He must wish _he _were the one creeping up on Rawling. In fact, she thought, I would do it myself. Shoot to kill, without hesitation, to protect these people he might still hurt.

She stared at the hostages, sitting on the tile floor while Rawling stalked around them. They were mostly older men, farm and ranch types, but there were women too—and a few small children. The chance to see large earth-moving equipment up close must have been exciting for them, but now…

Brennan's stomach clenched, not merely from residual motion sickness.

She squinted through the glare on the monitor. One woman sat with her arm wrapped tightly around a child. He was not crying, but stared out with eyes stretched wide from fear.

Booth caught her attention again, and she did not need to be trained in kinesiology to read his body language.

He had taken off his sunglasses, to better see the screen. The snipers were crawling on their bellies along the second-floor wall, and Booth's gaze was fixed on them. His fists clenched. The back of his neck, above the collar of his suit jacket, was red, while his face was white. Looking at him in profile, Brennan saw lines she hadn't noticed before, along his forehead and the sides of his mouth.

She moved a step forward, to better view his face. Now she was next to him and slightly in front; well within his peripheral vision, yet he did not seem aware of her.

His eyes stayed glued to the screen—but not, she realized, completely focused. He had the look of someone watching one thing, while seeing another.

And what he was seeing…

Of course, she thought. He has been in this position.

It's not just that he wants to be the one exacting revenge. He must be seeing something—or many things—that happened when he was a sniper.

Stealth approaches, and lying in wait. Sighting down his scope, aligning the crosshairs on a human being. Waiting for the shot, and taking it. Taking that life.

The people he'd killed—she knew he felt each one. Even knowing they were men who had done horrible things, and would continue to do them, unless stopped… Booth felt it.

Brennan could hear him breathing. Too fast and shallow, hissing through his nostrils.

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his arm. The same place he had grasped hers, that night in his apartment.

He jumped. Not dramatically, but a definite startle response.

For a moment, he looked at her as if he had no idea who she was. Then he blinked, breathing loudly in and out.

She did not let go of his arm.

She wanted suddenly to beg him, Booth, don't look at the monitor. Please. Just look at me.

But then she thought how she would feel, if he tried to tell her the same thing: _I don't like how you're reacting. _It would be protective, yes, but not the kind they needed. After all, he had let her come see Anders, against his better judgment. And now, however unpleasant, they both had to _see_.

So, she settled for holding onto him. Her hand slid down his sleeve to his palm, and their fingers wrapped hard around each other.

Brennan simply gripped his hand, and watched his eyes. They still bore that worrisome fog, but at least they acknowledged her now. Booth took another breath, that was more like a shiver. He gave her a very small nod, and turned back to the image on the screen.

**

The snipers had wormed their way into position. Midway down the second-floor walkway, hidden from view near the wall, they were about to approach the railing.

The gunman on the right moved first.

Brennan still gripped her partner's hand. Hers cool, his hot, both a little damp with sweat.

Before she knew what had happened, Rawling swung around, his gun aiming toward the railing, and fired off several rounds. If the surveillance tape had carried sound, there would've been screams from the hostages, as they shrank closer to the ground, covering their heads with their arms.

Curses and consternation flew among the officers.

"What the hell, what happened?"

"Shit. Is anyone hurt?"

"Damn, it's McAllister." Someone pointed at the sniper on the right of the screen. "He made some sound, maybe his rifle bumped the railing."

Brennan saw the unfortunate sniper squirming back from the edge, one hand clamped over his arm.

"He's hit," someone else said. "Doesn't look serious, but…"

Rawling hadn't stopped moving. And Brennan did not have to wait for explanation, from one of the agents with a microphone in their ear. Rawling was waving his arms at the hostages, clearly yelling, 'Get up! Everybody on your feet, now!'

"Bastard," Fleming said. "Making himself less of a target."

"Does he know our guys are up there?"

"Can't say, but he's real paranoid now, and that's—"

"Get him back on the phone! Try to calm him down."

But it was too late. As the hostages got to their feet, Rawling seized the nearest one. In a second, he had a slender, middle-aged man in a choke hold, pressing the gun to his head.

Brennan stared at Rawling's arms, the same powerful arms that had held her down, and swung blows at her face. It would have been more logical, she thought irrelevantly, to choose the largest person there, and use them as a shield.

Rawling's mouth was moving, his face distorted with distrust and rage.

"What's he saying?" someone demanded.

"To show themselves, whoever's there. For all of us to back off and get him an escape, or he kills that guy right now."

"In a physical confrontation," Brennan heard herself saying, "he's faster and smarter than he looks."

Fleming gave her a sharp glance. She knew she wasn't supposed to say anything, and by now, this information was too late to be useful.

Booth stuck up for her. He said, "That's firsthand knowledge she's got." Her comment seemed to focus him, and he peered intently at the screen.

Rawling was still holding his hostage in front of him, and now he was scanning the upper level, looking for additional threats.

The knot of officers conversed in low, urgent tones. The man communicating with the snipers rapped out, "Hernandez, if you have your shot, take it. Now."

The man on the left wriggled forward, rifle poised near the railing, but then he froze. The agent murmured more instructions into his microphone, and a moment later, the sniper retreated back toward the wall.

"He can't approach," someone said. "Rawling's watching for it—his head'll be visible before he can take a shot."

Booth shook free from Brennan, who was still gripping his hand.

"Let me talk to him," he demanded.

Fleming waved at Booth to keep him quiet, but he wouldn't listen. "He needs more cover," Booth said. "I know, I've been there. Let me talk to him! Look," he turned back to the monitor, "show me the end of the walkway. How close a view can you get on that old tractor there?"

"Booth, we've got this."

"Here, he can take cover underneath," Booth jabbed the screen in his insistence, "behind the wheel, and line up his shot again."

"He sees it. He's already going."

And he was: the black figure on the screen crawled swiftly along the wall, toward the front of the building. Soon he had reached the vintage tractor, which was high enough off the ground that he shimmied easily under it, and disappeared.

For tense seconds, everyone waited.

Rawling was getting desperate. He shouted again, still holding the hostage. Then he removed his gun from the man's head long enough to aim and shoot, taking out one of the security cameras mounted in the corner. Brennan saw their computer screen crackle and go blank, before the other camera could take over. The new image was slightly more grainy than before: Rawling, standing among the cowering hostages. The man he held as a shield was gripping the beefy arms, trying to keep them from his throat.

Then, Rawling turned to his left.

The sniper shot him in the side of the head, and he dropped. The hostage stumbled away. Brennan saw the gun fall and skitter across the tile, where Rawling lay twitching.

More silent screams, from the hostages.

More blurted orders, verifying the kill shot.

Then, as one, officers began running toward the building. Brennan and Booth were swept along, almost without volition. They jogged over the dusty gravel and squeezed through the main doors. No one stopped them.

Brennan had time to be surprised at how large and full of light the room was, compared to a computer screen in grayscale.

For some minutes, chaos reigned. The hostages had scattered when Rawling fell, and some were crying, with a few shrieks and 'oh my gods' punctuating the distress.

Uniformed men wove their way among the civilians, taking stock. They began comforting and sorting people, looking for any actual injuries, and then escorting them out of the building.

Despite her concern for the hostages, Brennan did not give the throng of people another glance. She walked straight up to Rawling's body.

He lay motionless, sprawled on his back on the white tile. His head was turned to one side, and under it, a puddle of blood was forming, dark and viscous.

His eyes were open and glassy. Those uncaring eyes, Brennan thought, that only ever held hostility or revenge—now, held nothing.

Booth stood at her elbow. Without having to look, she knew he was there.

**

Bones stared at Rawling's body longer than Booth would have. Certainly longer than he wanted her to.

He glanced up as more agents walked by, ushering out hostages who were wilting with relief.

Then EMTs appeared at the entrance, trotting in with first aid kits. Two headed for the rear staircase, to tend to the wounded sniper, while the other two knelt by Rawling.

Finally, Brennan stepped back. She watched the medics check him. Watched them drag his shirt away from his burly chest, and set sensor pads against his skin.

"Still getting a shock-able rhythm," the first medic said. "Charge to— No, it's gone."

"Try anyway," the other said. "Sometimes—" At that moment, he glanced up at Brennan.

For once, Booth could not read her expression. It had barely changed, as long as she'd stared at Rawling. Shock, yes, and a darkness in her eyes. But there was an unpleasant curl at the edge of her lips, one that Booth did not like at all.

Fleming had appeared next to Booth, so that the three of them stood in a row over Rawling. Whatever the EMT saw on their faces, it was clear this was no time for heroic measures.

"Okay," he said. "I'm calling it. Let's cover this guy up and get a gurney for him."

With that, Booth finally did what he wanted to do: get his partner out of there.

"Bones," he murmured. "Come on outside." As he spoke, he reached out, meaning to guide her with a touch. But she twisted her shoulders away from him, and he dropped his hand.

Too much to ask right now.

They walked back outside, past sniffling hostages and stern-faced police officers.

Now Brennan was the one with distanced, unseeing eyes. Booth looked sideways at her, thinking she might be in shock. Everything had happened so quickly. They'd had no time to process it.

For his part, he felt better than he had outside, watching the screen. Rawling is dead, he thought. But _I_ didn't make the shot. It's not on me.

They exited the building and stood to one side, in the narrow space of shade by the wall. Booth felt a bit jittery with unused adrenaline, and wouldn't have minded some pushups or a jog around the parking lot.

Brennan pulled her sunglasses out of her jacket pocket, along with the FBI cap. She plunked it onto her head, smoothing some wisps of hair by her ears.

"Bones…?"

"I'm going to—I need to walk around. I won't go far." She sounded distracted, unsteady. But what could he do?

"Okay."

He watched her walk off, taking long, efficient strides. It was strange to see her wearing FBI gear. She looked somehow cute and formidable at the same time.

Booth stayed by the entrance, looking around for what he could do, helping with the hostages. But he only had time to ask a few gentle questions, of a woman with smeared mascara, when something made him look up.

Bones had gotten halfway around the parking lot, walking the perimeter. He saw her over by the cop car they'd arrived in, which was parked behind an SUV. She had slowed down considerably from her brisk pace, and now she ducked between the cars, stumbling behind a tall bush at the edge of the lot.

Booth straightened up immediately. Something was wrong. He dodged around a clump of people and walked to the first line of parked cars, so he had a better view.

Behind the shoulder-high bush, she was leaning over. He couldn't see all of her, but she was holding onto one of the branches of the shrub.

Oh, god. She was being sick.

Instinctively, he started over, then checked himself. She would not thank him for catching her at a vulnerable time—what she would see as a show of weakness. But he had to make sure nothing was seriously wrong.

**

Brennan spat again, to get rid of the saliva pooling in her mouth. The whitish liquid formed a self-enclosed ball on the arid ground. She stared at the dust coating her shoes, hoping that her stomach was now completely empty.

Her body still quivered so badly she thought she'd have to sit down. But she held stubbornly onto the shrub, trusting that the symptom would pass.

"Bones?"

She didn't have to look up. "Go away," she groaned. How was he _always _there? Couldn't he even let her vomit in peace?

Still shaking, she wiped one sleeve over her mouth, and brushed at the involuntary tears that had squeezed out of her eyes.

Booth stood behind her, observing. Then he said, "Okay, wait a minute." He wasn't leaving, but went around the police car, and she heard its door open. He retrieved a thermos of cold water that someone had thoughtfully brought along.

It gave her a little more time to recover, so she felt able to face him when he came back.

Booth removed the cap, which doubled as a cup, and poured some water into it. He offered it to her. She drank, swished the water and spat it out, then drank again. Pushing some stray hair behind her ear, she was glad for the shade the brimmed hat provided. The glare hurt her eyes, now that she'd put her sunglasses back in her pocket.

Finally she looked up at Booth. "Why are you being so nice to me," she asked, "after I yelled at you this morning?"

"Bones, don't worry about it. We can talk about that later. It's just… there are more important things to worry about right now." He was squinting too, without his sunglasses, and familiar worry lined his forehead.

Judging purely by his words, Brennan would have assumed he meant the hostage situation, and neutralizing Rawling. But he wasn't looking at the dusty parking lot clustered with cops and civilians.

He was looking at her, as though she were something precious that he was checking for damage.

Then he seemed to decide that gentle teasing was in order. "So… since when did you become one of those people who pukes at the sight of blood?"

"Ugh," she said in exasperation, "I don't understand! I don't _do _this. I don't get sick on airplanes, and I certainly don't get sick at the sight of blood."

"It's okay, Bones. Easy. This whole thing was kind of sprung on us."

She didn't listen to his soothing. "And it's not because of…Rawling's body. It's because…" She had been staring at the twisted branches of the shrub, but now she looked Booth in the eye, and her own had a feverish glaze.

"It's because a human being is dead, and I'm glad.

"I stood over him, and I was glad. Because it made me remember things he threatened to do to us, and made me think how many people he could've hurt today." She held one hand over her belly, still looking sick. "When I saw the bullet hole in his parietal bone, I was _glad_."

Booth was quiet for a second. Then he told her in a low voice, "I know, Bones. I was too. And I wished Anders was lying there next to him."

"But you—" she protested, "you've killed people, and you've never been glad. You said—we've both said—there's always a cost. And there is. It should never be easy to take someone's life, no matter who it is. So why…" She searched his face. "Why should this be different?"

"Because. It's personal. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is."

He saw Bones accept his explanation, but she wasn't ready to reflect in too much detail right now. She sighed, and squeezed her eyes shut, against the glare of sun off nearby cars. Then, pushing the cup back into his hands she muttered, "I need to keep walking. Just—around. Just down the road."

He wanted to tell her to sit down in the shade until she felt better. But instead he agreed, "Okay. It's going to take a while, anyway, before we can home. Just—don't go too far."

He twisted the cap slowly back onto the bottle, watching his partner walk off across the dusty ground.

**

**A/N: **Guess what? I have a snow day off work here in slushy Colorado, and decided that this was the best use of my time. Thank me with detailed reviews. :) And yes, there is more character interaction on the way.


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: **Additional thanks to my indefatigable source, SimonJester479, for info about POW situations.

**Part 38 **

Booth went back to help with the hostages, taking down names and phone numbers, or trying to advise them about post-traumatic stress. But after only forty minutes, he found he couldn't take another traumatized face, so he did what Bones had done, and set off walking around the edge of the lot. She was now somewhere down the road; he'd kept an eye on her, and had seen her walk north, first, and then back south.

After he'd circled the lot, he dropped down to crank out twenty pushups, relishing the burn in his muscles. Getting up, he had to brush dust from his clothing, and flick away tiny bits of gravel that had embedded themselves in his palms.

Bones returned about ten minutes later. He saw her back over by the car they'd come in, taking long swallows of water from the jug. Walking over, he let her offer him a drink this time.

When he handed the cup back, he said, "It's going to be at least another hour before they finish up here. You want to, um…" But he had no idea what he could suggest they do. Play a card game? Go cry with the hostages? Curl up and sleep?

Bones was sitting on the car seat behind the open door, facing out. She stretched her feet out in front of her, flexing and pointing her toes. Then she twisted her upper body slowly from side to side, stretching her lower back. Booth noticed, under the FBI jacket, how her form-fitting red shirt clung to her body.

She brushed a faint sheen of sweat from her nose, and looked around the parking lot. Then she stood up. "Want to walk with me?"

**

They headed north again. Brennan mentioned a side road not far ahead, which would be better than walking along the shoulder of the highway.

Behind his sunglasses, Booth surveyed the barren countryside. Small cacti and shrubs lined the roadside, along with…

"Heh—look, Bones. Actual tumbleweed." They watched it bounce gently across the road in front of them, like a wicker basket made mostly of air.

The sight wouldn't be news to her, he realized; she'd already been out here walking for an hour. But she made no move to correct him.

The sun was hot, but the breeze was cool, and strong enough at times to blow abrasive clouds of dust against their faces. There was little traffic.

They had walked in silence for some ten minutes before Bones spoke up, as though resuming their conversation.

"I think the other reason I was ill… was because of the children in there. I mean, Rawling held _us _at gunpoint months ago, and apparently we're still traumatized. But they—they're just children."

Booth nodded painfully, and forced himself to say something optimistic. "Both of us went through some pretty bad things when we were young. We got through it. They will too."

Brennan glanced at him. Something was off, she thought. The tightness in his face… he didn't truly believe what he'd said. She wondered if he was thinking of Parker. Because those children, in the group of hostages, had been about his age.

A few steps down the road she said, "I'm just glad no one else was hurt."

Booth agreed wholeheartedly. Rawling, dead. One sharpshooter wounded in the arm. Given the situation, it could have been a lot worse.

Brennan was still thinking hard. "It wasn't the same," she said, "as when I shot Gil Lappin, who'd kidnapped Helen Majors."

"_I _was sure glad you shot him," Booth tried to joke.

"Or," she went on, "when you shot Farid, before he could bomb the conference. I was glad we stopped them," she said firmly. "But I wasn't glad they were dead."

"Listen, Bones. I don't want you to beat yourself up over this."

The sunglasses masked her expression. "Why? You said you felt the same…"

"I do. But…I've felt it before," he admitted. "Not often. But I've had more time to adjust to it than you have."

**

By the time they got back, Brennan was ready to get out of the sun. Fleming waved Booth over, and he returned to tell her they would be ready to leave in about thirty minutes.

The two of them climbed into the backseat of the parked car and simply sat there, with the doors open to let in the breeze.

Booth realized he was starving; it was well past lunchtime and breakfast had been a very long time ago. He was not thinking of anything except what the perfect meal would be right now, when Brennan spoke.

"Rawling, in the suite—" She stopped, darting a look at Booth. His nod encouraged her to go on.

"He had that knife. And Anders was going to let him…" She looked away and out the front of the car, where not much was visible except the tail lights of the next car. "We know he wasn't highly intelligent, but he knew how to make threats. Things that…he would do to one of us, while the other had to watch. And I believed he would."

Now Booth felt sick.

"That part," she said slowly, "reminded me of the guards in El Salvador. The threats meant to incite fear."

Booth waited, to see if she would continue. He risked asking, "You were there to ID remains?"

She nodded, eyes unfocused. "The victim I was working on…she was about thirteen. I thought, with the muscle attachments and the gracefulness of… She could've been a dancer. But she'd been shot in the head and thrown into a well. It was…" Her chin moved convulsively.

"One day these guards pulled me out of the tent and threw me in a cell. It was really small, and there was no light. They… told me I'd meet the same fate as that girl: gunshot to the head and thrown into a pit. No one would know who I was or what had happened to me." Her voice grated, forced through a tight throat.

"This was before my book was published, so… in that cell," Brennan shook her head, "it was irrational, but I hoped the draft version _would _be published, and then, even if I was dead, maybe more people would know my name, and care, and wonder about what happened to me."

Booth wanted to jump on a plane to El Salvador and hunt down those guards. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and show her how much he, for one, cared.

But her words had tripped something from his memory. And with his own flashbacks still fresh in his mind, he started, haltingly, to speak.

"When I was being held… You know, as a solider, and…tortured... I felt the same way. Because, the captors—they did a lot of bad shit, but almost the worst… they stripped off your dog tags, first thing. It was—" He shook his head, and started again. "I just got kind of obsessed with that. Wanting them back, you know, my name printed on the metal. Like, no matter what happened to me, at least people _would _know who I was."

He could feel Bones looking at him, although he was staring at the patch of dirt outside the open car door.

She spoke very softly. "That's why we do this job. We identify people. And try to get the ones responsible. You said it, in New Orleans." Her voice turned flinty. "We make those bastards unsafe."

Booth nodded, wishing he could smile at her tone.

Then he swallowed hard and said, "There were a couple other men with me from my unit. In a way it was worse, because you hated to think what they were doing to the other guy. Or…" He glanced at her quickly, thinking of what she'd said about Rawling's threats. "Being afraid they'd use one of us to break the other. But on the other side… we weren't alone. I think I held out longer because they were there. You know, being strong for each other."

"Is that," she asked carefully, "what you were remembering, looking at the monitor?"

"No." He shifted on the seat, shoving his feet as far forward as he could. "There were a couple things, but… the main one, I already told you. And it's like you said—those little kids in there today." He glanced at Bones again, then away. "You know how I had to… kill this guy in front of his son. In Kosovo. And today I… was back, seeing all of it, the approach, the watching and waiting… And then…"

Booth's voice had gone weak and thready. "It was the shape of that little boy's mouth. The shape it made when—like he wasn't big enough to contain it. Stretched really wide, like a ghost, or some horrible clown."

He wasn't sure he could continue, but words were still pressing to get out. "I caused that to happen," he said. "I kept hoping he'd move, you know, away from his father—my target. But he didn't move. So I made the shot."

Booth waited, just remembering to breathe. He half expected Bones to tell him it wasn't his fault, that he was following orders. But she didn't say anything. Didn't try to diminish the experience in any way.

Instead, like she'd done the first time, she reached out and clasped his hand. He'd had it clenched against his thigh, but as her fingers slid around, he gradually released his fist.

Then, like he had done, he covered her hand with his other one. Her fingers sandwiched warmly between his. He felt her stroke the back of his hand, over the fine hairs and the bony knob of his wrist. In his mind he could almost hear her telling him what bone that was.

When he looked up, he saw Brennan watching him with sorrow brimming her eyes. Not pity, not blame. Just sorrow that this had happened to him.

He realized their roles had reversed. All the times recently, when he'd tried to show her the same kind of understanding—and hoped he'd been successful—now, here he was receiving it.

**

It seemed like a long time before they let go of each other's hands. But the stillness between them was quickly disrupted. Fleming appeared at the car with a bunch of agents, and Booth and Brennan were caught up in the babble of talk.

The hostages had all been reassured and accounted for. Rawling's body had been taken away by ambulance—without sirens. The wounded sharpshooter was being treated at a nearby hospital, and they would pick him up before heading to the airport.

The other sniper—the one who'd made the kill shot—was there with the group. Booth went up to him.

"Hernandez," he said, and offered his hand.

"Booth." The man took it, and they shook.

Everyone climbed back into the cars they had taken from the airport. Right now, the men had a less official, but still vital, objective: food.

Most of the trip back up the highway was spent in meaningless argument about what sort of meal could be found in the small town of Crane. Brennan, listening, decided it was a sort of bonding ritual, or stress-relieving practice.

They stopped for sandwiches. The men loaded theirs with meat and sauces, while Brennan ordered a simple vegetarian sub. Then, before they boarded the plane back to D.C., she remembered that it would be a good idea to send Angela a text, so she wouldn't worry.

**

The morning weather patterns had blown themselves out, and the return flight was as smooth as could be.

Brennan spent some of the time conversing with the injured sniper, McAllister. He'd received several stitches, from the bullet grazing his upper arm. She asked about skin and muscle damage, then quizzed him about the medications he'd been given. McAllister seemed pleased at the attention, but still embarrassed he'd made a mistake that gave away his position.

Booth waited for Bones to come back to her seat, not sure if he should be irritated or amused. She wasn't talking to the sniper to make him feel better, Booth knew, but purely out of professional curiosity. This was how Bones made small talk: finding out the minutiae of someone's injury or congenital condition. If McAllister was feeling flattered, he was misinterpreting.

Yep, Booth thought as Bones slipped past him into her window seat. The only woman on the plane—this genius, gorgeous woman—and she's with me.

**

Bones surprised him by falling asleep halfway through the flight. But maybe he shouldn't have been surprised; he felt pretty wiped out himself. Even if the only exercise they'd gotten was to walk along the side of the road, the day's events had made their systems rev with undirected anxiety, and it had taken its toll.

Booth felt like napping himself. He pushed the control on his armrest to recline his seat a little, seeing as how Bones had lowered hers to an almost horizontal position. Now that he wasn't too preoccupied to notice, these accommodations were just about first class quality. Despite the plane's small size, the seats were wide, and there was a good amount of leg room.

Booth glanced across Bones at the half-shaded oval of window. It had gotten dark all of a sudden—which made sense, given the fact they were headed away from the setting sun.

He flipped half-heartedly through an outdated magazine he'd found in the seat pocket. Glancing around the plane, he noted what the other agents were doing. A couple read or napped, like him and Bones. Fleming, across the aisle, was frowning over paperwork. In the seats in front of them, two guys were talking about football.

Rather than join that conversation, Booth got up, stretched, and headed for the bathroom. On his way back, he surveyed the in-flight selection of alcohol, but it had already been picked over. He saw that Hernandez was nursing a glass of the good stuff, and he did not begrudge it for a second.

When he returned, Bones was frowning in her sleep. She was on her back, head turned away from him, with her knees drawn up on the seat. At some point her ponytail had come loose, and her hair fanned out to one side as if posed for a romantic portrait.

She still wore the FBI jacket, open all down the front. As Booth settled into his seat, he looked sideways at her, admiring that snug, scoop-neck red shirt. The way her ribs rose and fell with each breath. The roundness of her breasts. The faint, vertical hollows on her belly, from her ab muscles.

She made a noise in her throat, that nudged him out of his staring. It was one of those natural sounds people make in sleep, like a soft groan or mumbled word.

Booth couldn't help smiling a little, to see this unguarded side of her.

She had slipped off her shoes and left them on the floor, and he decided to do the same. He straightened his striped socks, then relaxed back in his seat. Brennan was frowning more deeply, her eyelids moving in an obvious dream state. What does Bones dream about? That frown resembled the look of concentration she often wore in the lab. Was she studying the nooks and crannies of bones, even in sleep?

Booth glanced at the seats behind them, glad they were empty, so he could recline his chair and not worry about anyone's leg room.

Then he heard her make another sound, more abrupt this time. Maybe it was surprise, or disapproval. Maybe a dream Cam had just over-ruled something Brennan wanted to do with her bones.

Then, she whimpered.

Booth froze, cursing himself for being an idiot. This was clearly a nightmare. Not something to joke about, even in his own head. After what they'd seen today, and remembered…

He looked at her with concern. She was breathing faster, her head and hands making little twitches, like she was trying to get away from something.

He took another quick survey of their fellow passengers, to see if anyone would notice, first, that she was dreaming, and second, if he tried to soothe her.

But everyone seemed engrossed in their tasks (or their own napping), and the hum of the plane masked all but the loudest conversations.

Booth looked back at Bones and considered his strategy.

The fact he had been in this situation before was not lost on him. But he'd been luckier that time: they'd been alone in his apartment, and she'd been sleeping peacefully, not dreaming.

Would it be best to wake her up? But how, aside from very gently?

Booth had forgotten about his half-reclined seat, and perched on the end, twisting sideways to look at his partner. Her face was still turned away from him, so he saw her in profile: her mouth and eyebrows tense, rather than relaxed in sleep.

Possibly, a careful touch… She had one hand resting on the far armrest, the other draped across her body. But there wasn't a part of her that he felt he could safely touch. Not when there was a chance she would startle awake, and this time it would be in front of a plane-ful of FBI agents.

If that was too risky, he would have to rely on his voice. Hopefully, to wake her gradually, or else just stop this dream.

He leaned back into his seat, virtually lying next to her, and turned his shoulders to face her.

He tried tentatively, "Bones?"

But things were getting worse. She muttered something that sounded like _No_, and it sounded desperate.

"Shh, Bones. It's okay. It's just a dream," he soothed. "It's not real."

She made another piteous sound, as if fighting to believe what he'd said.

"Nothing's gonna happen," he murmured, "I swear. Shh, baby, it's all right."

She went still for a second, then shifted as if pulling herself away. Her shoulders tensed, and her head turned toward him. He half expected her to open her eyes, and start lecturing him about the patronizing connotations of the endearment that had just slipped out of his mouth.

But she didn't wake up. She'd stopped twitching, and the frown did look like concentration now: trying to hear something far away.

"You're all right, Bones," he whispered. "It's okay. The bad guys are gone. It's just…you and me, like always."

He wasn't imagining it: the lines between her brows were smoothing out. Her breathing was regaining its rhythmic pattern.

A strand of hair clung to the side of her face, and he couldn't help but stroke it back, with just his fingertips, from the edge of her brow over her cheekbone.

She sighed, then, and it was the most peaceful, satisfying thing he'd heard. As she exhaled, she breathed his name. "_Booth_…" So soft, it almost wasn't audible. But it was full of comfort and familiarity.

_He _was forgetting to breathe.

He was forgetting where they were—on this plane full of federal agents, somewhere over the darkened eastern mountains. Returning from a mission. It should have pulled him back to a more professional frame of mind. But…it didn't.

Booth let himself lie there a moment longer, watching Bones sleep. Lie there, on a reclined, first-class seat. Lie there, his insides no longer gripped with dread… But now, gripped with something poignant.

Finally he looked away from his partner. The pale pink flush on her cheeks. The tender, closed eyelids under smooth brows.

He settled further into his seat, plumping the little airplane pillow behind his head.

I did it, he thought. I _fixed _something. I made it better.

After all the times he'd longed to do something, to help or comfort her, but knowing there was nothing he could do… this time, he had.

**

**A/N**: Okay, so I couldn't help jumping on the Booth-calls-her-baby bandwagon. Because…how can you not? To paraphrase Yanks in the UK: Sure it's been done before, but the experience is still breathtaking.


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N:** I wanted to take the opportunity to thank everyone who reviews, and if some from last chapter slipped through the cracks that I didn't respond to, know that I appreciate every comment. Especially the ones praising a specific aspect of the story! Thank you also to everyone adding me to their alerts and favs. Even if you lurk, you make me feel popular. :)

**Part 39**

It was cold, dark and drizzling when their plane touched down in D.C. As they got into Fleming's car to return to the FBI building, Booth groaned to think of how many separate trips they'd made today. Bones must've agreed with him, because when they finally climbed into his truck outside the Hoover, she told him to take her straight home, rather than going to get her car at the lab.

Booth started the engine, thinking of how she'd looked on the plane, waking up from her nap. She'd blinked sleepily and smiled a little. "Are we there?" She stretched in her seat, body undulating like a cat.

He looked up from the old magazine he hadn't been paying much attention to. "Almost." Then, "Nice nap?" He didn't quite dare to ask about dreams, even though he was dying to know how he had figured into it, once the nightmare had eased.

But she probably didn't remember. "Yes, actually, it was nice. Even though I don't often sleep well on planes. I guess…this was a day for unusual events."

**

They drove through D.C. in silence. Booth gripped the steering wheel, squinting in the glare of headlights. Streaks of rain glittered on the windshield.

He found himself replaying the events of the day, but what came to mind was their confrontation in the Jeffersonian corridor.

There hadn't been time, until now, to think it over. They'd pushed it aside; they'd pulled together to get through the day. Now…

Glancing over at Bones in the dim car, he saw the dashboard lights glowing faintly on her face. She looked pensive, just as he was.

He couldn't stand to bring it up; they were too tired. But they were probably going to have to talk about it.

_You didn't have a chance to be the hero. And you can't stand it, can you? _

He could admit she'd had a point there. Maybe his pride _was _hurt. Of course it had been: it was humiliating to have his gun taken away, to be locked up with his own cuffs. And the fact that _she'd _had to get them out of there, not him… Maybe his dignity was offended.

But then there was the other stuff, and it went way beyond selfish pride.

How he'd been unable to save his partner from…_that_. From those criminals, in the very next room, who were—

God, he'd already been through this, so many times.

He could handle it, he could. But what he couldn't handle… Brennan's voice in the hallway, forceful in its anger, and stripped of her usual control. _You didn't protect me when it counted, did you?_

He did not dispute that. The guilt was a familiar withering sensation in his belly.

But…if she really felt that way, why had it waited until now to come out? Had she just been suppressing it all this time, and—

He stole another glance at her, and found her casting one at him. They shared an awkward look. Are we both, he wondered, thinking of the same thing?

"Booth…" Brennan sounded very subdued. "I wanted to say—"

His phone rang, startling them both.

Her expression turned apprehensive. "What now?" The way things had been going lately, phone calls were to be dreaded.

He grabbed his cell from the center console, ignoring Bones' automatic warning. "Booth, you shouldn't talk while driving—"

It was Angela. "Booth, finally!" her voice accosted him. "Where are you? Where's Brennan? Are you two okay? We've been going nuts here, with no news all day."

"We're fine, Angela. They got Rawling. We're driving home now." Booth turned the windshield wipers to low, as the rain dwindled to mist.

"Angela's calling your phone?" Brennan said. "Oh, I forgot to turn mine back on after the flight…"

"Got Rawling how?" Angela asked. "All I have to go on is this text message from Brennan, that made me want to laugh, or cry, or strangle her as soon as she got back."

"Why," Booth glanced at Bones, "what did it say?" She was watching him with mingled curiosity and irritation, that she could only hear half the conversation.

"It said, _Rawling's dead. We're both fine. I'll call you later_."

Booth gave a short bark of laughter.

"What?" Bones demanded.

"Angela wants to strangle you, due to the brevity of your text message."

"Brevity? But," Bones looked genuinely puzzled, "a text message is by nature brief. I didn't want her to worry—"

Booth waved her off, focusing back on Angela's voice.

"So, _are _you both okay?"

"Oh, yeah," he answered with reckless irony. "She puked, I had a flashback—Don't worry about us, we're perfectly fine."

"She _what?_ Are you kidding me? And you had a—_what_?"

Bones was a little outraged herself. "Booth! You don't have to go telling everyone about that. Even if it is Angela."

She took that opportunity to reach over and pull the phone from his hand. "Hey!" he cried, but she was already explaining to her friend.

"Booth knows he shouldn't be on the phone while driving. And I only vomited because it was a residual symptom of turbulence from the outbound flight."

"You actually threw up at a crime scene? You?"

"Angela—why is that all you're concerned with right now?"

"Okay, sorry. It's just so unlike you." "I know." She sounded defensive. "But…there were FBI agents who threw up on the plane, and I didn't."

"Okay, Sweetie, I believe you. Now will you please tell me what actually happened today?"

"Well… We drove to where Rawling had taken hostages. We watched it on a screen, but…that's about all we did. Two snipers went in, and killed him before he could seriously harm anyone."

"That's it?" Angela cried. "Honey, if I wanted the short version I would have texted you. How did…?"

Brennan tried to think of something to pacify her friend. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I don't think I want to talk about it right now. Why don't…I could take you to breakfast tomorrow, or lunch."

As much as she cared for her friend, she found Angela a little too chaotic right now. Brennan needed quiet, not drama. She needed to simply sit with Booth for the rest of the car ride… enjoying the fact that they were, physically, undamaged.

Angela agreed to meet her the next day, but then said, "Bren, promise me something. I don't know what's going on with Booth exactly, but… you make sure that man is okay. Invite him to sleep over tonight, or something."

"Angela!"

"I'm not kidding. If he had some nasty military flashback… Just watch out for him. Whatever it takes. Do you promise?"

Her friend did have a point. "All right. Yes."

"Okay, now I want to talk to Booth."

Reluctantly, Brennan handed the phone back, and watched him from the corner of her eye. A reflection on the rearview mirror cast a bar of light across his forehead. He looked tired, she thought. He looked like he needed a guy hug.

"What's going on?" he asked Angela.

"Booth, listen to me. Make sure Brennan's okay tonight, understand? I could come over to her place, just to be safe, but… you two have gone through this whole thing together. I figure maybe it should stay that way."

**

Booth walked Bones up to her apartment. She dropped her bag on the small table just inside, and started to pull off her shoes.

Booth closed the door, but lingered there, feeling oddly self-conscious.

"Oh," Bones said, remembering, "this jacket." She shrugged her shoulders out of it and pulled free of the sleeves, handing it to him. Now that attractive red shirt had nothing to conceal it.

"Keep the hat," he told her with a smile. He saw goose bumps prickle on her arms in the chilly room.

"Um…do you want a drink?" she asked. "Or coffee, or something without caffeine?"

He hesitated.

Why was this different than the end of any other day? But somehow it was. It wasn't them sharing a simple drink after putting the bad guy away. There was something unusual about her invitation: Bones being tentative. It could have been their earlier argument, that now they weren't sure how to act with each other.

Booth should agree, mindful of what Angela had said. But he couldn't shake the feeling that this time, Bones inviting him into her apartment—it suddenly implied what those things usually implied. And that scared the crap out of him.

"No, thanks," he finally said. "You know, I should get back. I should probably call Rebecca and tell her what happened, so she doesn't hear about it later and then kick my ass for being secretive. And—" he glanced at the clock in the living room, "it's not too late, I can tell Parker goodnight while I'm at it."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to… I mean, after today…"

She really looked worried. "What's the matter, Bones?" He took a step forward, within touching distance.

"Well…Angela made me promise to look out for you. After…what you saw today."

For a second, he didn't understand. Then he almost laughed. "Angela made _you _promise? To make sure _I_ was going to be okay?" He snorted. "Bones, she made me promise the same thing about you."

That broke the tension. They shook their heads, chuckling over their mutual friend and matchmaker.

"She is rather interfering," Bones said, "but she always means well. Apparently she thinks us sleeping together will solve everything."

And, Booth thought, welcome back, tension.

"That is her solution to a lot of things," he agreed.

Brennan was still looking amused at Angela's antics, but her face changed. It turned…speculative. Booth saw her eyes flicker over him, as if…

"Okay," he said abruptly, "well, I should go, and…get some sleep. It's been a long day."

Brennan nodded, her blue eyes wide and sober. Then she closed the distance between them, stepping close against his side, and kissed his cheek.

He stood stock still. Her hair brushed his ear, smelling of herbs and sunshine. Her warm breath puffed against his skin, and her lips felt slightly rough, from all that dry Texas air.

She didn't step back right away, either. She stood much too close.

Close enough for him to notice faint freckles across her nose, on her otherwise flawless skin. And to see, at the inside edge of her eyebrow, the few little hairs that angled up, rather than in line with the others.

Her features were so fine, he thought. That was the word. Not delicate. Fine. And earthy, and real, and right in front of him.

He could hear his own breathing, and hers.

She'd been looking down, first. At his cheek, where she had kissed him. Then, at his—dear god, at his lips. Now up to his eyes.

He made an inarticulate sound, and pulled her to him in a hug.

She reached up, her arms going around his shoulders. He felt her whole body slim and strong against him, and they gripped each other with fierce care.

"Oh," he breathed against her hair. "I've wanted to do that all day."

Slowly, she released him, and they stepped back. He felt cold.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean, I wanted to hug you when I was scared." His eyes tried to twinkle at her. She wasn't sure if he was kidding, and he honestly didn't know himself.

"Now," Booth said, "what was that for? Why did you kiss me?"

**

She should have known he would ask. He waited patiently while she searched for the appropriate words. At some point he had removed his tie, and opened his shirt at the neck, so that the white lapels flared carelessly against his dark jacket. He looked rumpled and beautiful in unpolished splendor.

"It was…" she said, "Thank you. For letting me be your partner. For letting us finish this the way we started it. Together."

To be fair, she thought, this case was not truly finished; they still had to get through Anders' trial. But the investigation, the apprehending suspects part… at long last, that was finished.

Booth's dark eyes held hers. "Maybe I should thank you too. For being my partner." His voice was low and rough. "I'm glad I wasn't alone out there today."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Then Booth broke the moment with a quirk of his eyebrows. "As I recall, you didn't give me much choice in the matter. Something about my future ability to father children?"

Brennan smiled guiltily, then sobered. "I wouldn't have done it," she told him. "I couldn't have. Not to you."

_And not, _some part of her brain piped up, _when I can think of far more pleasurable things I could do with your—_

She didn't know what sort of reaction had showed on her face, but Booth's gaze sharpened, and his mouth turned up.

"Are you blushing, Bones? I didn't know you did that."

She tried to ignore the comment, and the way his eyes seemed to see inside her brain. Flailing briefly, she settled on something that would stop the teasing_. _As if to punish herself, because she didn't deserve his playfulness, after their argument.

"The things I said today, outside the lab…"

The smile disappeared from Booth's face.

"I shouldn't have said it. I don't think I meant it, but…" She trailed off helplessly.

"You don't _think _you meant it?"

"No. I don't know why I said what I did, but… I can't be certain if I meant it or not. I suppose I need to think it over. It's…" She rubbed her forehead, much too tired to pursue this topic now that she had brought it up. Then inspiration struck. "I can ask Angela. Tomorrow, at the diner."

"Better her than Sweets," Booth sighed. "I guess we missed another session with him this week."

"Booth?" She looked at him intently. "If Angela helps me make sense of this… and then I come back and talk to you… would that be all right?"

"Yeah, Bones. It's not like there's a time limit on figuring this out. And…I did my share of yelling today too. Even though I should know better than to try to boss you around."

She looked at the mix of humor and hurt on his face and thought, I want to apologize. But what if I _did _mean what I said? I already swore I didn't blame him. I can't go back on my word again.

"So, um…" Booth stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. "What if I said I was scared to go home to my lonely apartment? Maybe I could…stay here?" His eyebrows made imploring arches.

Brennan had folded her arms across her chest, looking perplexed.

"You know," he said, "if any more personal demons show up, you can chase them off. And I could return the favor." Even, he thought, if you're asleep and won't remember.

"This is because of what Angela said," Brennan decided. "You…" she narrowed her eyes. "You're just saying that, so if I didn't want to be alone, I'd have an easy way out."

He spread his hands as if to say 'you got me,' but continued, "Hey, my apartment can be scary. There are some very strange noises coming from the pipes and walls in the middle of the night."

"Well," Brennan reasoned, "that's probably because it's an older building. We don't," she insisted, "have to humor Angela. Unless…" Of their own volition, her eyes flickered over his body. "Unless we wanted to."

She honestly didn't know what, if anything, she was implying. At the least, companionship, and knowing he was sleeping safely in her guest room. At the most…

"Um, yeah," he blurted, "I should really go call Rebecca—Parker—and…"

If Brennan didn't know better, she'd swear an expression of panic had flashed across his face.

"So," he was saying, "should I pick you up tomorrow, since your car's still at the lab?"

"Oh, thank you, but Angela's giving me a ride. And… when is Dave Samson's flight getting in?"

It took Booth a moment to remember that they had a case. Right, he told himself. The current suspect. Finding out whether he killed his old lacrosse teammate. "No, it's not tomorrow," he told her. "Flight's due in Friday, around noon. We can interview him them."

"All right." She watched him tuck the collar of his jacket closer about his neck, in preparation for going back into the freezing drizzle. Why, she thought, when female fashions were bent on revealing everything, did male fashions cover so much skin, and only hint at the form underneath?

"So, I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Booth."

"Yeah, Bones. You too."

His eyes seemed to be telling her something beyond the words. Her mind could not discern what it was, but it made her chest feel full and warm and weightless.

**

**A/N: **The heightened UST of season 5 must be getting to me. Because I swear, this teasing in my story is unplanned. It just keeps happening! But it will not be for naught. (Unlike Hart Hanson, I will not string you along indefinitely.) My UST might not result in smut, but I promise it will not be for naught.


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N:** You know your story is getting too long when… several chapters back I already exhausted my thesaurus, especially for synonyms of 'concern,' or more recently, 'retribution.' And yet, I keep thinking of more scenes that the story seems to need. I don't think you're complaining…

**Part 40**

Angela waited until after they'd ordered breakfast to ask.

On the drive into town, Brennan had patiently answered her questions about the previous day's events, and now they sat at Booth's favorite table by the window, waiting for their food to arrive.

The smells of coffee, sizzling sausage and eggs wafted from the diner's kitchen, making their stomachs rumble with anticipation.

"You look a little tired today, Bren. Is everything all right?"

Brennan sighed and slouched down, cupping her chin in her hand. She was clad in a brown jacket over a turquoise blouse, colors that Angela thought looked fabulous on her.

"I had a bad dream last night," she admitted, "or rather this morning, and then couldn't get back to sleep."

"Oh." Angela sounded distressed, but couldn't help adding, with a tiny, suggestive smile, "I'm telling you, you should've had Booth sleep over."

"What could he have done?" Brennan asked. It would only have upset him…seeing as how I nearly screamed before waking up. And then what would _I_ have done? Crawled into bed with him like a little child?

Some of the skepticism must've shown on her face, because Angela relented. "Okay, I'm dropping it." She was wearing a black and white blouse in a zebra print, and dangly silver earrings. She fiddled with one before saying, "You haven't had bad dreams for a while, have you? Not since…the first weeks after it happened?"

Brennan nodded agreement.

She glanced out the window at the wet, cold weather. Pedestrians strode past with turned-up collars, and puddles on the road glimmered, before being exploded by passing cars.

"Want to tell me about it?" Angela asked gently.

Brennan gave a half shake of the head. "It was… the usual, expected stuff. Some combination of Rawling, Anders, and the guards from El Salvador."

God, Angela thought. That was the _usual _stuff? She waited, but her friend did not elaborate. "Was Booth in it?"

Brennan glanced up, as if to find some hidden agenda in the question. But Angela's face was somber. "I didn't know…if he was in the cell next to mine. And I didn't want to think what they might do to him, but… No, he wasn't in it."

Their food arrived, sparing her from further explanation. She had ordered a simple bowl of cereal, topped with generous amounts of fruit and nuts.

With her knife, Angela scooped a pat of butter from the dish, smearing it over her blueberry pancakes. She took a bite, and sighed. "Mm, this is _perfect_. You sure you don't want some?"

"Maybe a bite," Brennan said. "But you usually put—" She paused, as Angela reached for the bottle of maple syrup. "…Too much syrup on it."

Her friend gave an impish grin. "I know, I'm so bad, right? Maybe I'll go for a run later, to burn off the sugar. Or tomorrow…"

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Angela took a sip of orange juice and said, "So, are you going to tell me what this big serious deal is that you wanted my advice on?"

Brennan crunched the last of the nuts, then put down her spoon. "Yes," she said purposefully. "You probably noticed that Booth and I were arguing as we left the Jeffersonian yesterday…"

"Honey, the entire lab noticed."

Brennan frowned, but pushed on. "We said some things… _I_ said some things I shouldn't have."

She quickly explained that she couldn't tell whether she had meant them or not, and that she preferred Angela's input rather than Sweets'.

"Okay, I'm listening."

Angela watched Brennan relate the words in a perfectly expressionless tone. She did not try to defend herself; she merely presented the facts. Although she hid it well, Angela knew she was feeling a good dose of anxiety and guilt. And she was terribly afraid the reaction would be something like, 'Sweetie, how could you say such horrible things to Booth?'

So, for reassurance, and based on what she'd seen of the confrontation, Angela said the first thing that came to mind.

"He was being an overprotective jerk!"

Brennan's look of surprise would have been extremely funny, given other circumstances.

"I mean," Angela said, "your words were kind of harsh, but in a way he deserved it. Why does he get to be the one always going off hunting bad guys, and making you stay here? Okay," she added, "not that I'm faulting him, because I'd keep you locked in the lab half the time if I had my way." She anticipated a look of exasperation. "I know, not helping."

But Brennan was deep in thought, barely noticing the waitress coming to take their plates away.

"We _are _partners," she said. "But he…it was like, he tried to take full responsibility for catching Anders and Rawling, or for what went wrong in that suite."

"He _is _the cop," Angela commented. "That's his job."

"Yes," she conceded. "Perhaps he holds more responsibility in that regard, when we're out in the field. But not all of it. Because we _share _responsibilities. We do this job together."

She was gazing out the window again, where a man had picked up a small child so she wouldn't have to leap over a puddle.

Brennan looked back at Angela. "Booth shouldn't have to take all that burden on himself," she said passionately. "It's like he's punishing himself, trying to stay so involved in this case. But it's not right. He shouldn't take it all. I won't let him do that to himself."

Angela looked wistful at the rare intensity of emotion her friend had revealed. "He's noble," she sighed. And so are you, Bren.

At that point, they realized they should probably vacate the table, since the diner was still bustling with the breakfast crowd. They paid the bill and collected their coats, walking out onto the wet sidewalk and turning toward the Jeffersonian.

They crossed the first street with caution, staying back from the curb to avoid being splashed by passing cars.

"So," Angela said as they walked along a quieter route, "tell me if this is right. You're mad at Booth for being so good and honorable, and not including you in your fair share of responsibility?"

"I suppose that's accurate."

"But, Brennan… in that suite…" She paused as they squeezed to one side, to make room for a woman with two large dogs on leashes.

As they kept walking, Angela stayed quiet, long enough that Brennan urged, "Go on."

"When you were alone with those two criminals, did you… Did a part of you believe Booth could have, or should have saved you?"

Now Brennan was silent. She wanted to object immediately, but the way Angela asked it... She was right. This was the heart of the matter.

"I know it's not rational," she said slowly. "But maybe I did. Because I've seen what he can do, in other situations where the odds were stacked against him. Like—when Hodgins and I were buried…" She saw the flicker of pain that crossed Angela's face. "He said I had faith in Booth. Not just confidence in his abilities, or the tendency to prevail despite obstacles, but…"

"Actual faith," Angela murmured. "And you're right. The evidence is there. He's made a habit of bursting in at the last second to pull you out of harm's way. With the Gravedigger…" She swallowed at the memory. "It's true you and Jack did a pretty impressive job of blasting yourselves out to begin with. But Booth was the first one there. The one who made sure someone _was _there, to pull you out."

"And when Kenton had me," Brennan said in a low voice, "Booth was still the first one there." Despite the odds, despite broken ribs. He was there.

"But, Angela… How can I blame him for not rescuing me? I knew, I understood that it was too risky to fight back, and later, that he was not going to kick down that locked door. There were handcuffs and firearms—it was impossible."

"I know, Sweetie. But faith isn't always rational. And…knowing something isn't the same as accepting it."

They walked quietly for another block, past iron fences, and dead leaf debris at the bases of trees lining the street.

"But I would _know_," Brennan said, _"_if I blamed him. Wouldn't it affect our working relationship? We've _been _able to work closely together, and… like yesterday, to share things that we've rarely told anyone else."

Angela repressed the urge to ask what those things were. Instead she nodded sympathetically, and chose her next words with care.

"I don't think," she said, "it's that you hold him responsible."

"No, I've made that clear."

"Maybe, Bren… It's that you _depend _on him. Not just in the sense of partnership, that he's the cop and you're the scientist. I mean you depend on _him_. As a person. As a friend."

Angela touched Brennan's arm. "And that's a _good _thing, Sweetie."

**

They reached the grounds of the museum, and cut through the gardens, toward the fountain. The well-tended grass was still green at this time of year, the hedges meticulously cropped.

Angela had one more question for her friend, which she asked with a mix of teasing and concern. "So, I guess you're recovered from your bout of illness yesterday?"

Brennan made a frustrated sound in her throat. "I told you, it was mainly from the turbulence. A small aircraft—"

Angela held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, I know."

"Well, to be honest…" she confessed, "it was also because of Rawling."

They reached the fountain, and stopped. The rushing of the water made a soothing backdrop.

Brennan explained how she had felt, just as she'd told Booth: A human being is dead. And I was glad.

Angela saw how her eyes burned, remembering the vindictive pleasure. But she shuddered at the same time.

"Sweetie, it's okay."

Bren was staring at the rippling surface of the water, and the few dead leaves that floated there, over a sprinkling of copper and silver coins.

This was not a time to offer platitudes about human nature, Angela thought. So she reminded herself of all the initial fury she had felt, when she'd realized what her friend had gone through. Was still going through.

"If I got anywhere near Anders," she spat, "knowing what that bastard did, I'd pull a Lorena Bobbitt on him with my sharpest art knife. Or maybe my dullest one," she said viciously, "because it would hurt more."

Brennan gaped in surprise. But she didn't say, 'I don't know what that means.' Her eyes conveyed approval, even gratitude.

"And," Angela railed, "if Rawling wasn't already dead, I'd have done the same to him. For—watching. For punching Booth. And for the unfair fight that left you bleeding.

"That…" Angela paused to take a deep breath, "is my reaction as your best friend. My reaction as a stand-in for the estimable Dr. Sweets…" She sat down on the side of the fountain, folding her hands over her knees. "…Is that your reverence for life came into violent conflict with the natural desire for vengeance. An eye for an eye, and all that."

"Rawling," Brennan said deliberately, "was shot in the head. Like Miranda Charles."

"His victim," Angela murmured.

On a whim, she dug in her purse, producing several coins. She leaned over and tossed them toward the center of the fountain, so that they plunked into the pool, under the plashing spray.

For a moment she looked at them glittering on the bottom, then turned back to Brennan, who asked, "What was that for?"

Angela smiled ruefully. "I know you don't believe it, Sweetie, but…wishes. For Miranda's family. For you and Booth."

**

**A/N: **I wrote this scene before checking the episode shots of outside the museum. That fountain is freaking huge! I wasn't imagining it half that big. And, would they turn the jets off for cold weather? Ah, screw it. I'm picturing a modest, quieter fountain for this scene. So, now that I've done the nitpicking, you are free to tell me what you liked, in exquisite detail. :-D


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N:** I didn't know I was going to put this in here, it just happened. As if Bren hasn't suffered enough, huh? But I thought, the experience with Rawling in Texas…she couldn't come away from that unscathed.

The next section is not quite ready, so I am serving a more modest-sized portion for your post-Thanksgiving enjoyment.

**Part 41 **

That morning, Brennan renewed her study of the victim's bones, and conferred with her team about their results.

Hodgins, looking more excited than was quite proper, reported what an overwhelming number of particulates, insect and plant materials had been found with the remains—in the generous amount of mud that had accompanied the victim from the ditch. "I'm still analyzing it all," he'd said brightly. "It's hard to tell what's significant until I get through a larger sample. I'll let you know."

Near midday, Brennan settled in her office to organize paperwork, and finish cataloging the marks on the skeleton. The lab grew quiet, as most people departed for lunch. Rather than accompany Cam wherever she was going, Brennan preferred to eat what she'd brought with her. Zack had disappeared, probably for his soup or macaroni or whatever he ate these days, while Angela was likely trysting in some secret corner of the museum with Hodgins.

Brennan looked up at a knock. A maintenance man she vaguely recognized was standing in the doorway.

"I'm here to replace that light," he said, motioning at the ceiling. One of the fluorescent bulbs had been flickering for several days, threatening to drive her mad, until it had gone completely out.

The man retreated, only to return lugging a folded ladder. With a series of loud clanks, he set it up under the offending light.

Brennan tried to focus back on her work, but the man was distracting. Why couldn't he have done this yesterday, when she was out of town? He fiddled with the plastic light cover. He hummed a little under his breath.

And…she could smell him. It was not so much bad as…strong. Noticeable.

Like Anders.

Brennan could not concentrate; she was too aware of that other person in the room.

He did not look like Anders or Rawling. He did nothing inappropriate. But her nerves were inexplicably on guard, her eyes wanting to dart around the room in search of nonexistent threats.

The man now stood near the top of the ladder, disengaging the long tube of the old light. He was not dangerously close to her desk, so there was little risk he would hit her if he dropped something. But… he loomed over her nonetheless.

The ladder blocked her escape route. It was between her and the door.

Brennan stood abruptly. Snagging her coat from its hook, she scuttled around the ladder and bolted out.

**

She walked. She left the lab, and just walked. As she had done at least twice before: once, forcing Booth to stop his car on the way back from the inn. Again, as she had wanted to do, running out of Quantico, or leaving the FBI building once Anders was arrested.

And, of course—Brennan paused, realizing where her feet had taken her. It had been the quietest, most convenient route from the Jeffersonian. She stood at the entrance to the same park she had walked with Angela, the evening after it happened.

Shaking her head, she went in.

It looked completely different, she told herself. That had been at night, and here it was the middle of the day. That had been months ago. She did not need to dwell on how she had felt the last time she'd been here.

But…she couldn't help it.

She was walking the same damn path they'd been on. The gravel crunched underfoot, squelching a little from the recent rain. Here were the flowerbeds lining the walk, blossoms replaced with more drab and hardy species. There were the views of monuments through the trees; the obelisk, now, pointing at a monochrome gray sky, rather than dusky sunset clouds.

Two women strode past, chatting animatedly about someone's boyfriend. They hardly noticed Brennan.

Why, she thought, am I doing this? As punishment, or a test?

She remembered the dull shock she'd felt, after the hospital. The blanket of medication, blurring the pain of cracked ribs. The sting of a split lip. The ache of other regions.

From Rawling, clenching her arms. Anders, gripping her hips. The terrifying pressure as he forced himself inside her. Sharp—the pain had been so sharp. As though he truly wielded a weapon.

Then the clash with Rawling: he'd dodged her blows with unexpected swiftness. Her balance was off, hampered by the ropes cinching her wrists. Just like the metal that locked Booth, helpless, in the other room.

Brennan took a furious, quivering breath, and stomped off the path. She cut defiantly across the grass, away from the loop. A muddy patch made her shoes slip, but she did not care. She went as far to the other side as possible, then rejoined a path that should not connect to the loop she'd been on. It was near the outer edge of the park, where trees no longer muted the rushing sound of traffic.

Brennan kept walking the perimeter, thinking about what Angela had said.

_Did you believe Booth could have, or should have saved you?_

Somehow, maybe she did. A small, irrational part of her had thought—had wished—he would burst through the door in the nick of time, and together they would fight the criminals and win free.

In that room with Anders and Rawling, she'd had to understand that nothing was going to intervene. Not her own strength, not her partner, not some kind of mercy.

And Booth. He'd had to understand there was nothing he could do. The criminals had chained his physical and mental powers, and it made Brennan hate them all the more.

Checking her watch, she returned to the park's exit, and back through town. Angela's words kept whispering through her mind, and now, a part of her wished she hadn't remembered everything her friend had said.

_You depend on him, Bren. Not just as partners. On _him_._

_**_

She was still lost in thought as she wound her way through familiar corridors, toward the sliding doors of the lab. Just before she reached the glass-paneled entrance, her peripheral vision caught someone at the end of the hall.

It was Booth, skidding around the corner in an obvious rush. He strode toward the lab doors, but halted when he saw her. "Bones!" His shoulders slumped in relief, before he advanced again. "There you are! Where the hell have you been for the past hour?"

"I was out for a walk—"

"I called thirty minutes ago to see if you'd had lunch yet, but you didn't answer, cell phone _or_ office, and no one had any idea where you were! What were you thinking?"

"I—"

"This is not like you! You left your phone and keys and everything."

He was standing right in front of her now, a strange echo of their face-off from the day before, in this same hallway.

"You searched my office?" she said incredulously. "My things?"

"Of course I did, if no one had a clue what had happened to you! The security guards barely noticed a thing, and all Cam could say was that you were in your office, maybe an hour ago, and that was the last she'd seen you."

"I was. I just—"

Now he took her by the shoulders, his hands pressing ungently into the muscle. "Don't do that to me, Bones! I was about to go get the security footage for the entire building, to see if you'd been dragged off by a kidnapper or something."

"Booth! You're being unreasonable. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, especially in a high-security lab, or walking around in broad daylight."

He wasn't finished. "What's going on? Where did you have to go so suddenly?"

"Nowhere. I just needed to walk." She didn't want to say more, but the words came out even so. "There was this maintenance guy replacing my office light, and I couldn't concentrate. He was—distracting."

Booth's eyes narrowed. Somehow, Brennan thought, he knew why she had bolted. But how could he possibly know?

His grip on her arms tightened. "Did he do something? Bones, if he said or did anything—"

"No, no. He didn't do anything. I just…"

As Booth studied her, his face changed, the anger replaced by tenderness. "Are you okay?"

She'd rarely heard his voice that soft, but she ignored it. "Of course I am."

"I mean…after yesterday…" His hands relaxed on her shoulders. They gave her a comforting pat, and then, something like a caress.

No, no.

Why hadn't he stayed angry? Anger she could deal with. She could give him her self-sufficient woman speech, and send him on his way. This…

It made her want to give in. To surrender, sink forward into his arms, and confess everything. About the maintenance man, and the park, and last night's dream.

He would be gentle, she was sure. He still felt responsible, and wouldn't react with anything but empathy. He would hold her, and everything would be right.

But it was ridiculous to think that would fix things. Or that one individual could supply everything another person needed.

Besides, if she did that…how would she ever pull away?

Booth still held her shoulders, waiting. His eyes searched her face, concerned for her mental well-being, now that her physical safety was confirmed.

A part of her liked his worry; she couldn't deny it—that he cared about where she was at all times. But it was maddening, too. He just kept showing up, not giving her time to think.

I've depended on him enough, Brennan thought. I nearly invited him to stay the night, for god's sake. If not for sex, then for comfort—and that's almost worse.

Angela is wrong. Becoming too dependent on another person is _not _a good thing. It makes me feel weak and exposed.

And I refuse to feel that, not here, not now.

Because it was the middle of the workday, and they were standing outside the Medico-Legal lab, that center of inquiry and reason.

Brennan brought her forearms up between Booth's, where he still clasped her shoulders possessively. She pushed outward to break his grasp, slowly enough that it didn't seem threatening, but Booth saw it for what it was: a self-defense move.

Something shuttered in his eyes. He took a step back.

"I'm sorry," she said, "if I caused you concern, but I merely went for a walk before lunch." Her tone sounded cool, even to her ears. But, her mind defended, we _need _a cooling off period. Because yesterday was more than enough closeness.

"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked, to keep from seeing something like hurt on his face. "Did you have a purpose for coming here, other than to check on me?"

"Yes," he said levelly. "I wanted to see if we should get lunch, and to tell you to come to the Hoover tomorrow for that interview, about two o'clock. Plus, Caroline wants to meet with us again, but she probably won't have time until next week."

"All right," Brennan agreed. They stood there, stiff and formal. She couldn't simply send Booth away... just yet. "For lunch… I already brought mine with me." She tilted her head toward the lab.

He smiled a little. "Now that I've come all this way… you don't want to get takeout? Or head to the diner?"

"I was already there for breakfast. Besides, Booth, we've barely been apart for twelve hours."

His mouth quirked, eyes glinting at her. "So?"

The way he said it…

She had to look away. Because he said it like a lover.

"Booth…" This time Brennan sighed. "I can't take too much of this—" she fumbled, "intimacy. After yesterday…" Explanations evaded her. "I'll meet you tomorrow for the interview. Okay?"

Booth looked somber. She had crossed her arms, and that body language must have told him she needed space. "Okay, Bones. I guess we don't want to go overboard, right, with too many intense conversations within a twenty-four hour period?"

She glanced gratefully at him, for understanding. He hadn't even asked about her discussion with Angela.

His penetrating gaze held her for a moment longer, before he nodded, and took a step down the hall toward the exit. "So, I'll see you tomorrow. 'Cause we've got a murderer to catch!" Booth gave her what would've been his cocky grin, if it hadn't, now, seemed forced.

**

**A/N: **Don't hate me. Bren needs her space, okay?

"Self-sufficient woman speech" -- did I steal that from adangeli's Forty Weeks? If so, thanks, pal.


	42. Chapter 42

**Part 42**

The next day they interviewed the elusive Dave Samson, suspected of killing his lacrosse teammate.

Booth sat across from him in the black-paneled interrogation room, while Brennan stood behind the table with her arms folded. Booth noted this was not her typical posture; she usually sat with him, across from the suspect. But she still had that air of detachment from yesterday.

Those walls, he thought. For self defense.

Pushing it to a corner of his mind, he focused on making this Samson kid sweat. He told him about the other former teammate, the one who'd heard him arguing with the victim.

"I guess we argued sometimes," Samson hedged, "but we were teammates, okay? I would never hurt the guy."

"Even if he was your biggest competition?" Booth prodded. "We know what a good player he was. Turns out, you don't look so hot in comparison. And then maybe you don't get noticed by the scouts, and you don't end up on this professional team the way you planned."

He listened to the kid's protestations, while keeping an eye on his partner. Brennan stalked slowly around the interrogation room. Arms still folded, she studied the young man. As though he were human remains, and if she scrutinized him long enough, he would give up his secrets.

Booth took a slightly different track, this time bringing up the gambling rumors he'd heard from coaches and players.

_Gotcha_, he thought. The kid was definitely hiding something now. His eyes flicked between Booth and Brennan, whose silent observation was making him nervous.

Booth played cat and mouse for a few more minutes, before zooming in. "Of course, gambling is a sensitive topic," he said with mock sympathy. "Classic case, Arizona State University basketball in '94. This one player got caught trying to fix games, in exchange for wiping out gambling debts with a campus bookie." Booth leaned casually back in his chair. "Sort of thing happens all the time, really."

He focused his gaze back on Samson. "So…maybe you got recruited by someone, it all looked innocent enough at first... You just got in over your head."

The kid was looking slightly hopeful. Maybe he wasn't in as much trouble as he'd thought…

"But if you don't want to be more forthcoming," Booth said with an indifferent air, "and give us the goods about this gambling—hey, it's all the same to me. I can just charge you with murder and lock you up."

"I told you," Samson cried, "I had no reason to kill Serge! Look, I helped him, a lot, when he had that ACL injury—"

"But you had motive, and opportunity, and a weapon," Brennan said calmly. She stood near the back wall, so the kid had to turn around to see her. "The victim's cranium was fractured by two violent blows. The first, to stun him or knock him unconscious, and the second to kill him. Our lab can discover what type of object was used to strike him. And what do you think the odds are that it was a lacrosse stick?"

Oh, nice one, Bones, Booth thought.

She'd backed him up beautifully. In a creepy sort of way. And the reaction she'd provoked from the kid—Booth was pretty sure he wasn't the killer. Because right now, he looked sick and scared.

Bones had just lied, too. Booth knew the murder weapon wasn't a lacrosse stick. From the first analysis of the bones, she and her squints had said it was a pipe or a baseball bat. And they were nothing if not precise.

So that had done it: the kid cracked. He revealed what he and the victim had argued about, confessing that he had been gambling.

Gradually, Booth drew the important details out of him. He'd gotten hooked on betting back in high school, when he and his dad started playing online poker. And it had just escalated. Yes, he'd had debts with a bookie, a man named Keith Grever. He'd been thinking about skewing lacrosse games, but his teammate had found out. Serge wanted him to stop, and threatened to expose him if he wouldn't.

Samson kept babbling, insisting that even if it looked really bad right now, he hadn't hurt his teammate. He pinned all the probable blame on the bookie. "Because he walked in on us arguing one time!" He said it as though just remembering. "It was late, the gym was deserted, and—anyway, _he _knew that Serge knew. And Grever, he works at this shitty travel agency, which I guarantee you does not pay the bills. At least not the kind he runs up, with the fast car he likes to drive, or the expensive restaurants he likes to take his trophy girlfriends to."

**

"Samson didn't do it," Booth declared. The partners had just entered his office after the interview.

"Are you sure? How do you know?"

"Just looking at him, Bones. He was a scared kid. Sure, he's been working the gambling ring for a while, but… I seriously doubt he wanted that guy dead."

"Even if Serge exposing him would've ruined his reputation?" Brennan asked. "And therefore his chances of playing professionally?"

"Yeah, even so." Booth fiddled with the window blinds as he walked past. "We'll check his alibi, of course, for the week the victim went missing. But," he turned back to Bones, "I'm just not getting a murder vibe here."

She shook her head slowly. "I'll never understand how you do it, Booth."

Her voice was admiring, and it made him smile. "Since when do you hold my gut feelings in high regard?"

"Not your _gut_," she clarified. "Your reading of unconscious cues, in people's voices and body language… You know when people are lying."

"Hey, you lied pretty smoothly back there. About the murder weapon?" She returned his smile, reluctantly. "We make a great team, Bones."

"We do," she said. But she didn't look particularly happy about it. And Booth did not want to think, right now, about why.

"Well," he dropped into his desk chair, "the irony of this case is going to kill some of my co-workers. The FBI has a specific task force designed to prevent this sort of thing. Our Sports Presentation Program, it's supposed to help college and professional associations stay away from drugs, bribery and gambling. We're supposed to caution players that organized crime might try to corrupt them and ruin the integrity of their sport." He grimaced. "Obviously, some of them have done a fine job of ruining it on their own."

Bones had taken the chair across the desk. "So, are we going after this Grever person? He could be our killer."

"Nope, not today. I've got to check him out first." Booth reached toward his computer.

Brennan managed to look disappointed and relieved at the same time. "We're not going to find him right away?"

"This is how it works, Bones," he reminded her. "I run a background check on the guy and get some research under my belt. _Then _we go confront him."

Brennan was silent while Booth waited for the database to load. He glanced at her, and found her studying him.

"Would you," she said quietly, "have been this cautious before…what happened in the suite?"

That caught him off guard.

"I'm not being cautious. I'm doing my homework."

"He could be the murderer." Brennan looked grave. "Is it wise to allow him an additional weekend in which to commit felonies?"

Booth opened his mouth, then closed it. "No, Bones… If he killed the victim to shut him up, he thinks that's the end of it. We're not putting anybody in danger by waiting." We're keeping ourselves safe, he added silently. "You know the process. Collect as much data as you can, right?"

She nodded.

"And never go into an interview without background information," he finished. "It would be negligent not to."

"You're right, of course. I'm…sorry."

Booth wondered if she was apologizing for more than today's comments.

Since there was no reason for her to stay, Brennan returned to the lab. Booth wanted to invite her to the diner for their customary coffee and pie, but something stopped him. She still seemed…aloof.

He didn't want to be rejected. And he didn't want her to have to make up an excuse, when, for whatever reason, she wasn't in the mood for it. So he let her go with minimal discussion, and no mention of seeing each other over the weekend.

Once Booth was alone, he leaned back in his chair.

_Was _he being cautious about pursuing this lead? He could have done a quick check and headed into the field on the same day. Bones was right; it wasn't a good idea to let a suspect run free for too long. Even if he didn't go around committing more crimes, he could get wind of the investigation and take off.

Booth remembered what Sweets had said weeks ago: being too careful or too bold could have disastrous consequences.

Damn shrinks. I am _not _being cautious. They've got me doubting a time-tested process.

But…

He thought of Bones, arriving safely back at her lab. She would pull on the blue lab coat. She would twist her hair into a careless knot, revealing the graceful sweep of her neck.

Booth started typing the bookie's information into his database. When we do go confront Grever, he told himself, if anything looks fishy, I will call for back-up. Even if that _would _be overly cautious, I won't hesitate. Because I would rather look like a fool in front of other agents, than put my partner into danger.

**

That weekend, Brennan felt like she still had energy to burn, from the anxiety-ridden trip to Texas. So she started her Saturday with a group cycling class at her gym, that left her sweaty and purged, but not satisfied. Next she lifted weights for about thirty minutes, studiously avoiding anyone's gaze, until it was time for a yoga class. This instructor liked them to hold poses indefinitely, so that downward dog made her triceps ache, and the low lunge had her quadriceps burning.

After what amounted to three workouts in a row, Brennan did feel better. But she stopped for groceries on the way home, and ended up in slow-moving traffic, hungry, irritated, and craving a shower.

She was just lugging the bags into her apartment when she heard her cell phone ring. It was buried somewhere in one of the bags, and she nearly dropped everything trying to dig it out. Finally she answered, "Brennan."

"Bones, it's me," Booth said. "I thought maybe you'd like a ride tonight, and we could stop at the diner after."

"What?" Balancing a heavy canvas bag on her shoulder, she went to set it on the dining table.

"You're the one who said you could only do it on a weekend. Our session with Sweets tonight."

"Oh, _fuck_." Brennan had completely forgotten. She swore in an undertone, but the meaning was clear.

"Bones?" After a second of silence, Booth sounded like he might laugh. "Did you just say—?"

"Yes, I did. I forgot about Sweets. I can't—"

"You _forgot_? You don't ever forget things."

She didn't know if he was teasing, but felt suddenly very angry. At him, at Sweets, at humans in general.

"All right," she cried, "I forgot! I put it out of my mind."

"Okay…" Booth said uncertainly. "Does that mean you _do _want a ride? Because Sweets was pretty adamant about seeing us, once he found out about Rawling and Texas."

"No," she said curtly. "I mean, I can't make it. You can go have your Saturday night. And Sweets too. Doesn't he have a date or something?"

"No, I thought he was between girlfriends. But, Bones…" Booth's voice took on a note of wary concern that she had heard far too often. "Is everything okay?"

"Will you stop asking me that?" she snapped. "I can't do this today. All right, I just can't."

She exhaled loudly, and if Booth had wanted to say something else, the sound stopped him. "I'll call Sweets and give him an excuse," she said tersely.

"Now if you don't mind, I have melting food I have to put away. I'll see you Monday."

**

After she'd dismissed Booth and put her groceries away, then gotten herself that much-needed meal and shower, Brennan settled on the couch with the latest journal articles. But she didn't read them right away. Instead she stared into space, at the blank screen of the TV she'd only purchased to please Angela or Booth.

That call with him…it forced her to name the emotion she had been feeling lately. Feeling on and off for days, or weeks.

It was anger. She was extremely angry at the man who had held them prisoner, who had assaulted her. She was angry at Rawling too, but seeing his dead body, with blood oozing from the bullet hole in his skull, had gone a long way toward alleviating that anger.

It was almost a relief to identify it, and give herself permission to feel it. _Damn right I should be angry. _

Even when the two criminals had finally been dealt with: one dead, and one in custody, where he would remain.

Brennan was angry that Anders had done what he had—and not just to her, although that was the worst. What provoked her fury was his rule-breaking. His flight from justice. His smugness.

He had gotten away with his crimes. Not in the sense that he'd go free. He was in prison (where he'd surely return after his trial), but he would live there rather comfortably. He would be a drain on society. With no freedom—but no responsibilities, or requirement to make reparations.

She suspected he was the type to go along remembering what he had done to her, and taking pleasure from it.

Brennan had read articles; she knew anger was a normal reaction. How to deal with it was another matter.

And then there was Booth.

But she didn't have the patience to think about him now. Once the fury had dissipated…

She knew she'd been short with her friends and colleagues for the past few days. And she knew she could quell these negative emotions, but perhaps the effort was not worth the gain.

Sweets would say it was unhealthy to bottle things up. This anger clamored for an outlet, and so, this once, Brennan would let it.

She tossed her journal articles back on the coffee table, and went to find the loudest, most booming piece of music she owned. Let its bass line reverberate through the floor. Let the neighbors complain.

Once she'd dedicated herself to a pursuit, Brennan was nothing if not thorough.

With the music as motivation, she scoured the apartment in a bout of brief but rampant house cleaning. Then she sat at her desk and scribbled out a long, furious piece of plot for her novel. It involved the heroine catching a would-be rapist in the act—no, _before _he could do the deed. The victim, a girl who looked like Miranda Charles, was rescued, and Kathy Reichs meted out justice in quick and brutal ways. A gunshot. Or a beating, administered by her FBI partner. Or a raging lecture that let the criminal know exactly what a corrupt and cowardly son of a bitch he truly was.

It didn't matter if this plot never made it into a finished novel. Brennan wasn't sure the writing was cathartic, exactly, but it did seem beneficial.

**

That night, she was tired enough to turn in early, but then lay in bed thinking. She was still aggravated. First, by the fact that she'd promised to talk to Booth, once she figured out why she'd yelled at him. And she was still figuring it out, because emotions were not on the long list of things at which she excelled.

Why is Booth so understanding? she wondered. So patient and… perfect? But that word choice was absurd, because everyone is flawed and fallible.

Brennan stopped herself, staring at the dim ceiling. This was the type of uncomfortable idea Sweets would drag out, but she had come up with it herself. Had she, until now, thought Booth could not make a mistake? (In terms of cases, of course, not academic topics.) She recalled what she'd told Angela: he had that knack of coming through for her when no one else could. He was so good with people, and firearms, and instinct. He was her safety net.

In that suite, he'd broken the pattern, and the consequences had been terrible. She didn't blame him—they'd already been over the what-ifs too many times. He might have saved both their lives. But he hadn't kept her safe.

Because the world was not safe, and no one was really in control of anything.

Brennan turned over, pulling her knees up to her chest. She huddled under the covers in her dark bedroom, suddenly wishing Angela or Booth were there with her. Ironic, of course, when she'd been fed up with them looking over her shoulder, asking if she was all right.

_Tempe, don't be a baby._

It sounded like Russ's voice, from when they were little. She couldn't have been much older than six, when they used to wrestle and play rough. Often, she'd ended up crying. Well before she'd thought Russ was cool, she'd thought he was a bully. She had fought back, of course. And she didn't hold that natural sibling rivalry against him, today. But those words had stuck with her.

They had even become a mantra she repeated to herself, when she needed to pluck up her courage. Whether engaging a stronger opponent in karate, or trekking through a foreign country trying to stay under the radar of patrolling soldiers.

Brennan had rarely acted like a baby in her life. Even twenty-five years ago, when she'd _been _one.

So there was no reason to start now.

She rolled onto her other side and resolved to sleep. Independent of both nightmares and overdramatic friends.

**

In place of that weekend meeting with Sweets, Booth called Angela.

"I think I screwed up." He didn't even ask her if it was a good time, but she listened with a loyalty that Sweets would envy.

"Maybe I teased her too much," Booth fretted. "I was too pushy and worried when I thought she'd gone missing. And I know," he headed off a possible objection, "it's not all about me. Bones has some things she needs to deal with that have nothing to do with me. But…you can't say the timing doesn't mean something. You two had that talk, and right after that, she got… unreceptive."

"This is Brennan we're talking about here," Angela reminded him. "And she's had a right to be unreceptive lately."

"I know," Booth said. "I know I shouldn't grill you about what you two talked about, but…I have an idea. Because—she doesn't want to talk to me. She cancelled our meeting with Sweets, and she must…" He took a breath. "The logical conclusion is that Bones _does _blame me for what went down in that suite."

"No, Booth," Angela said gently. "You can leave the logic to her. Because it's quite the opposite."

He groaned. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that she…" He heard a faint smile in Angela's voice. "…That you both depend on each other. Even though you're strong and independent people, you do, a lot. Do you understand? That's a big deal. But," she cautioned, "that's all I'm saying."

Booth was quiet, and Angela switched to soft teasing. "You really need me to tell you this, with the magic way you read people? But I guess sometimes you're too close to see. Anyway—Booth, just give her time. If she promised to talk to you about this after she'd given it some thought, then she will. But not until she's ready."

Angela reassured him she would check on Brennan that weekend, but added, "If she needs to be alone, that's not a disaster. Maybe you don't like it, maybe I don't like it. But for two days, it's not going to kill her, okay?"

Once Booth had hung up, he wandered aimlessly around his living room. He kicked at the football lying on the carpet. Although this wasn't his weekend with his son, they were going to the park tomorrow, when the weather promised to be clear and mild. Booth picked up the football, fitting his fingers over the stitching, just as he had shown Parker how to do. He drew back his arm and mimed a long pass, picturing the perfect spin and trajectory.

Okay, Bones, he thought. If you need to take this big pendulum swing away from the people who care about you, then go ahead. Just don't go so far you forget the way back. But if you do, I'll come find you.

He had faith she would come back. Even if this process took longer than he hoped, he was a patient man. And she was worth the wait.

**

**A/N:** Part of this section was a struggle to write. Probably because Brennan is struggling with her least favorite thing: emotions. (Maybe it seems bad right now, but I promise she'll come around.)

Did I steal something else from adangeli's stories? This time, Brennan swearing, from Slip and Fall? What can I say, you're just too memorable.

Thanks to VENZwife for trading character analysis with me, and tossing around the "infallible hero" idea.


	43. Chapter 43

**Part 43**

On Sunday morning, Brennan reminded herself that the anger would not simply disappear, after she gave vent to it. Still, she would make the most of karate class.

She stayed afterward, in the deserted studio, pummeling the heavy bag on its wide base. Not like the focused control in class: moving through the forms, or sparring safely with others. Now, she could let go.

Alone in the bare room. One strike after another, using the weight of her torso to throw a punch. Twisting her body in a roundhouse kick, to smack her foot against the target. The impact jarred her hips and spine. She grunted, and kicked again.

_Damn it, Anders_—in rhythm with her blows.

Damn nightmares, not letting me sleep.

Fuck Anders. Fuck Rawling. For what they did, they have to pay.

Elbow strike, then whirl to hook kick. Cross punch, and jab. No concern for guarding her face; this opponent would not hit back. All aggression, no defense. Quick and hard, chafing her skin on the vinyl.

She was angry at others, too. It belted out through her fists and feet, against the padded bag.

Damn Sweets, always wanting to talk.

Damn Booth, never leaves me alone.

Even Angela, being too nice. Damn Hodgins and Cam, looking at me funny. Damn Zack, not having a clue.

**

In the locker room shower, Brennan tried to imagine the anger washing away, like sweat. Toxins bleeding out of you, purged and purified.

Before wrapping a towel around herself, she ran her hands over her ribcage. The healed fractures had ached a little, during her workout. (She'd cursed Rawling and his hard-toed boots, for inflicting that on her.) But it was more like a memory, like phantom pain.

Brennan had changed clothes and headed for her car when it occurred to her. It was not a coincidence that she thought of Sweets and Booth right after Anders. The comparison seemed horrible to make, and yet, there were similarities.

All three invaded her space in some sense. Her physical, emotional and psychological space. The obvious difference was that Sweets and Booth did so out of kindness, for personal or professional reasons. Whereas Anders…twisted malevolence.

Brennan started her car and turned out of the lot toward home.

Anders invaded all of those dimensions. Much as she hated to admit it, what he'd done had lasting effects on her life, and her interactions with others. Not to mention her body: recalling where he'd pawed her. Or her nerves, convincing her she was unsafe in routine situations.

Booth, too, invaded all those areas. But he…

She _wanted_ him. To some extent, at least. The way he always checked if she was all right. The way he'd stepped close to her, in the Jeffersonian hallway. The way he could bring her coffee in one hand and make her question her fundamental beliefs on the other.

Yes, she thought, I depend on him. But I don't _need _him.

Brennan arrived at her apartment. She took her gym bag from the car and climbed the stairs. Once inside, she wandered to the couch and sat down, realizing that anger had given way to odd reflections.

Sweets, too, invaded her space. By trying to help, by dragging out into the light some things she'd rather keep in dusty attic corners.

But she was fed up with people making claims on her, for good or ill. It was so much easier, and more peaceful, to be distant. Untouchable. Unloved.

Somewhere in her mind, Angela's voice floated up, relentless. You can't be distant from _life_, Brennan.

She shook her head and pushed off the couch. Heading into the kitchen for lunch, she grabbed an anthropology journal, and a pencil to make notes. She could multitask, and take her mind, for a moment, off unsettling topics.

Once she'd finished eating, Brennan noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. It was Angela.

"Hi Sweetie, I know you're probably at karate, but I just wanted to see how your weekend's going. Sorry we haven't gotten together… My dad's here today and we're going to a concert. I want to invite you, but I don't think it would be quite your thing. But call my cell, okay, for any reason. Otherwise I'll see you tomorrow. Love you, Bren."

Brennan felt her eyes sting at that easy declaration of love.

Her hand went to 'delete,' now that she'd heard the message. But she chose 'save' instead.

She could never shake the feeling that she didn't deserve Angela. What could she possibly offer, compared to those trendy fellow artists she spent time with? But the sure way to freeze Angela out was to dwell on such differences. Or not to listen when her friend offered advice.

And Angela was right: aloofness had not worked recently. Emotions were too strong.

Brennan returned to her couch, clutching the half-read anthropology journal. But she didn't resume reading it.

As a scientist, I must be neutral and detached. Emotion has no purpose; in fact, it harms my work. Theories crumble when they embody too much of _you _and not enough objective data.

Those habits are hard to break.

But she _was _breaking them; she couldn't help it. Emotions _were _too strong—not just the bad ones, but good ones too. With Angela, who had been her friend for so long. With Booth, who scared, excited, and comforted her.

Brennan ran her thumb over the edge of the journal she held, bending and flipping the pages.

She thought of the theory she was supposed to prove or disprove. The idea that you can't depend on anyone, that fundamentally, you have no one but yourself. She still believed it, to a point. It had proven correct, in that suite, when she hadn't been able to protect herself against the two crooks, and Booth hadn't rescued her either. Of course, he _would _have… but he couldn't.

That was an unusual situation, however. It did not fit the pattern Brennan had observed: Booth and Angela were dedicated to her. They stuck with her, even if she didn't make it easy for them.

Maybe I do need them, she admitted. But they don't really need me. Their lives are full enough. Angela has Hodgins, and her father, and her large network of friends. Booth has Parker, and his brother, and…any number of women willing to partner romantically.

But Brennan thought of Angela dropping everything to stay overnight after the assault. She had cooked dinner, shared magazines, and held her hand against the dark.

Brennan thought of Booth, putting his arm around her while they watched a movie on his couch. She had felt so safe.

And when she had alluded to the feeling of homelessness that had haunted her since high school, Booth had hugged her closer and said, _Wherever your squints are, and I am, that's where you belong. You're not lost. You're right here._

If he's right, Brennan thought… I _want _to belong here. Maybe I don't deserve them… but they're not leaving me yet. I'm very lucky. And I should try to be a better friend.

I should, by all means, take my space if I need it. But not to the point of isolation, or pushing people away. I don't think I have, not yet. _Better make sure you don't._

**

The very next morning, Brennan decided to show appreciation for her friends. She stopped at a florist on the way to the lab, and chose a flower for Angela. A single yellow rose, with a card attached. She considered getting Booth a flower too—why should she adhere to culturally dictated notions that flowers were for women?—but decided she didn't want to offend his manly sensibilities; and besides, Booth preferred words to tokens.

She would have the chance to say those words sooner rather than later. Just as she got to her office, Sweets called to demand that she and Booth see him immediately, before going into the field to check out the bookie.

Brennan sighed gustily, with residual anger.

"I'm sorry if this is short notice," Sweets was saying, "but since you cancelled our session, it leaves me little choice."

"All right," she agreed. But her mood was not quite back to cool composure. "I want you to know, Sweets, I can see through that mask of professional obligation. Enough to realize that you enjoy holding this power over us and our partnership—by threatening to break us up, or hobbling our ability to serve justice. I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt, that we stood you up this weekend, but you seem to be responding in a personal rather than professional way. And I'm only agreeing to meet right now," she concluded "because I respect your intellect, if not your choice of occupation." And because I want to tell Booth something, and this gives me an opportunity.

**

The rose was the first thing Angela saw when she entered her office that morning. It stood on her desk in a tall beaker of water. The bright gold petals made her smile, but she didn't think it was from Hodgins. Reaching for the note tied to the stem with ribbon, she read, 'Angela, thank you for being my friend in good times and bad. Love, Brennan.'

"Oh…!" Angela gave a sentimental squeal, and went straight out, to find her friend and hug her.

**

Sweets gauged the two people sitting across from him. Brennan and Booth were chafing at this requirement. They had a suspect to go interview, and saw the meeting as an unnecessary delay.

Yet…they seemed subdued in each other's presence. Almost…shy. Their eye contact was more fleeting, body language uncertain. Was it his imagination, or were they sitting at the farthest ends of the couch from each other? Out of deference, Sweets thought, not resentment.

He decided to wait it out, beginning with questions he'd been wanting to ask for days: about their reactions to Rawling's fate.

"We've been over this, Sweets," Booth said bluntly. "Without you."

"Sorry," Brennan added, "but it's true."

Still, they humored him. They summarized the anxiety of their trip to Texas, and told him a much-shortened version of what they'd said to each other once the hostage crisis had ended. Sweets could see they were in doubt about the other's frame of mind, but still, they stuck together, against him.

Brennan had taken off the jacket she wore over her green and blue blouse, and now fidgeted with it, folded over one arm. Booth wore his usual suit, with a dark blue tie. He seemed glad to see his partner, but cast her oblique glances as though trying to tell what she was really thinking.

Brennan looked impatient, and soon sidestepped Sweets' questions altogether. She turned to Booth, ignoring the fact that they weren't alone.

"I need to tell you something," she began, "about last week." Sweets saw Booth tense up, listening carefully.

"In the Jeffersonian hallway, when I was demanding to go along to Texas… it might have seemed I was acting out of stubbornness. But it was at least partly altruistic. Because…" She shifted her weight on the sofa, and ended up closer to Booth. "I didn't want you to go through that, at least not alone. Being subjected to a long and uncomfortable stretch of travel, and then some unknown emergency…" She shook her head.

"You were trying to take all the responsibility on yourself. Not letting me have my fair share as your partner—or even letting the FBI have theirs. I know you thought… You wanted to be the one to shoot Rawling, no matter the rules. But I wouldn't let you do that to yourself, Booth." Her voice was rough and fervent. "Because it only seems like justice now. Later, it would hurt you. You would wonder about your motives, and I don't want you to feel that." She paused, searching his eyes. "Do you understand?"

Booth, too, had shifted closer to her. Now he spoke softly. "Yeah, Bones. I get it. You were trying to protect me."

Sweets thought he would seriously melt, because of the warm and concerned vibes radiating between the two of them.

And he was wild with curiosity about this hallway confrontation they had alluded to. But he could deduce the core of it: Brennan had raised her voice, for the exact same reason Booth had been overbearing: they were trying to spare the other pain.

The moment broke when they looked away, and Booth reached for a distraction, in the form of a metal slinky on the table. Sweets twirled his pen, thinking. He was humbled by the emotions they'd revealed, and that Brennan, in fact, had initiated.

Right now, she was watching Booth play with the slinky. It made a liquid clacking sound as he poured its coils from one hand to the other, like an old-fashioned balance scale.

Sweets reconsidered his next goal. The pair was about to go into the field to confront a murder suspect. It was the first time, since the events in the suite. As a therapist, Sweets had wanted to deal with the anxiety the partners were probably feeling. However… he should not risk making them self-conscious or nervous, by drawing attention to the situation.

Booth and Brennan had a fascinating rapport. They worked well without words, or even much common ground. So much of their communication happened without any reference to the things that made sense to Sweets: his well-studied theories, or cerebral psych profiles.

These two, they simply…worked.

So. Sweets sighed, and put down his pen. He would dismiss them for the day, sending them out into the world with his (silent) blessing and well wishes.

Picking up the slinky Booth had abandoned, Sweets watched them depart. They sported that slight but customary look of joy at being liberated.

Well, he thought—with perhaps the least scientific phrase to cross his mind in this therapy office—_if it ain't broke, don't fix it._

_**_

**A/N: **So, we have now resolved most, but not all, of the 'hallway confrontations'—stay tuned. Next up: this suspect interview. It's already planned, if not written, but I'm curious if you have any predictions. Will it be uneventful, or will there be some kind of disaster? (Assuming you're not all too drunk on last night's Christmas episode to respond :).


	44. Chapter 44

**Part 44 **

Booth found himself, once again, casting sidelong glances at his partner. After the meeting with Sweets, they'd headed straight to his truck, and were now driving to the travel agency where the bookie Keith Grever worked.

Bones was wearing a pale green blouse, its front panel patterned in blue and green floral. Each time he saw her in a new beautiful hue, he thought, _that's _my favorite.

"Booth…" she started. When he glanced at her, she still had that worried look from Sweets' office. "There's…more I wanted to tell you."

He could have figured that. She'd spent the weekend alone, and it would've been out of character if she hadn't done some serious thinking. And, based on what Angela had told him, he could have predicted why she'd pulled away last week. _You both depend on each other, even though you're strong and independent people. And that's a big deal. _

If Bones had realized the same thing… there were no guarantees about what she would do.

But today, her openness and concern in Sweets' office—that had told him the most vital information. Along with the fact that she was here next to him, not boarding a plane, and not holed up in Limbo. He was pretty sure that his faith had been right.

"It's okay, Bones," he told her. "We can talk later. How 'bout lunch at the diner?"

"But…" She was wearing sunglasses, and now pushed them back, to perch on her head. "I promised to tell you what I meant, after… I mean, are we…?"

She was still concerned about his opinion, because there were some things they hadn't dealt with. But underneath her questions he could hear, _Is this going to work? Are we okay? _

"Let's just do our job right now," Booth said gently. "We're solid, Bones. We're a team. Right?"

She smiled, quick and unexpected. "Yes. We are."

He grinned back, basking in the brilliance of her smile. All the clichés are true, he thought: how her eyes sparkle, how she's already beautiful, but when she smiles…completely dazzling.

And something about that smile… or the sunglasses on her head, holding her hair back from her face... It reminded him of Roxy, her Vegas alter-ego.

And that was the perfect idea.

It had been bugging him all weekend, while running background checks, and calling Angela, and playing football with Parker. Just how to deal with this crook?

Booth peered at an approaching road sign, and changed lanes for the next turnoff.

"Listen, Bones, this bookie…" He summarized what he had learned, pointing out a sheet of paper on the center console, that listed previous charges Grever had incurred, including gambling and bribery.

"I'm not thinking he's dangerous right now," Booth said. "If he owns a gun that he didn't register, there's no reason to be toting it to work at some dinky travel agency. But, just in case," he flashed a smug smile, "I'm totally prepared." He patted his calf, where a second gun was holstered.

"Oh, so you would let me have that one, if the situation called for it?"

Booth gave her a look of exaggerated strictness. "_Only _if the situation called for it.

"Now, the point is, we can get Grever on additional gambling charges, because of what Dave Samson told us. But I need to get a read on him—how he feels about guys like Samson, and whether he could kill someone."

Brennan flipped down her sunshade, listening attentively.

"From what I read," Booth went on, "he's basically a bully. Likes to push people around, but once he's outnumbered—he might try to weasel out of the situation.

"He might run, as soon as I say FBI. And if we arrest him first, on minor charges, he'll just clam up and wait for the expensive lawyer he hired last time around. So, I was thinking…"

"You want to talk to him before he knows who you are," Brennan said.

"Exactly. And the best way to do that…"

She looked at him with typical skepticism. "An undercover operation?"

"Just a little stealth reconnaissance, Bones." He pulled his own sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on. "I think it's time Tony and Roxy took another vacation."

**

It was a risk, Booth knew.

It was a big risk, asking her to play that role. Roxy, the sexy schoolteacher, devilish and uninhibited. He should not drag Brennan out of her comfort zone. Not so soon after what Anders had done, and not after last week when she'd pushed everyone away.

But somehow, it felt like the right thing to do. Not just for the investigation, Booth thought, but for Bones. For them.

After all, she had come to some decision over the weekend, something that seemed favorable for relationships. Maybe, he thought, playing someone so unreserved could be…liberating. Roxy was the opposite of aloof. She was totally at ease with herself, and physically demonstrative with her man.

_No, we're not married, _her protest sounded in his memory, _we're not even engaged_.

Praying he wasn't wrong, Booth gauged Brennan's reaction.

The idea had surprised her. She looked reluctant to be Roxy, but couldn't find a real reason to object.

"Booth, I don't know..."

_I don't know if that's a good idea. I don't know if I can._

But he had confidence in her. And he wasn't going to give her time to get cold feet. Because, when he'd first said Tony and Roxy, he'd seen, under that doubt, a little spark of interest.

So Booth decided to push her, to get into character. "C'mon," he scoffed. "After we took down that crime ring in Vegas… you can't tell me you're _scared_, Roxy?"

He was right. Bones—Roxy—couldn't resist the challenge. Her eyes still held uncertainty, but her lips curved. "I'm not scared of anything, tiger."

**

They pulled into a small parking lot down the street from the travel agency. This block also housed a coffee shop and used book store, with a little playground next to the parking area. Paint peeled from some of the storefronts, but the modest neighborhood was still a place where you'd be comfortable walking after dark.

Booth turned off the car's engine. "Okay, Bones, just follow my lead here. If I don't break character, it's because I think he's dangerous enough to call for backup. If I do flash my badge," he cautioned, "be ready. If he runs, then—you know, trip him or give him a swift kick in the nuts like you're so good at."

Brennan frowned, thinking he was being sarcastic. But he smiled, letting her know he was sincere, even if he meant it humorously.

He opened the car door, letting in a cool breeze, and the shrieks of children from the playground.

Bones glanced down at herself, and back to him. "Booth, we're not prepared for this. I mean, you're wearing a suit. You have two guns."

"Oh," he said. His eyes flicked over her. "That tailored jacket? Roxy would think it's boring. And Tony…"

Booth shrugged out of his suit coat, glad it was an unseasonably warm day. Both of them could go around in shirtsleeves without suspicion.

"You too," he told Bones. "Ditch the jacket." Giving him another skeptical look, she did.

Next he unfastened the weapon at his waist, and hid it in the jacket, which he'd leave in the car. He still had the calf holster for emergencies.

Flipping down the visor, Booth eyed himself in the mirror. "Let's see what else we can do here, huh?"

The tie had to go. He undid the knot, then opened his shirt a couple buttons, so the white lapels revealed his collarbone. He gave himself an experimental smirk. _Tony_.

"Oh," Bones said, "I guess I should follow suit." And she reached for the top button of her blouse.

"Uh," Booth agreed, "yeah." He felt himself grinning, and tried not watch her revealing some cleavage. "Good thinking. What would Roxy do, right?"

He started ruffling his fingers through his hair, trying to make it less tame. Bones grabbed her bag from the floor and rummaged in it. "I don't have any red lipstick," she mused, "but that's what she would wear, isn't it?"

"Um," Booth said again. "More for things like…that red dress you had." He cleared his throat.

"I do have some eyeliner. That should do, since we're improvising?"

"Sure."

While she brandished the makeup wand and gazed in her mirror, Booth opened a bottle of water and tipped some into his hand. He smoothed it over his hair, to approximate Tony's slicked-back look.

Brennan capped the eyeliner and turned to him. "Like this?"

She had drawn a dark, smoky line along the top of her lashes, extending it just beyond the outer edge of her eye. It was a simple change, but… she _was _Roxy. Her eyes looked longer, almost exotic. Under the dark liner, they glowed crystal blue.

Booth realized he was staring, just like he had when she'd worn that black dress. "Yeah," he echoed. "Like that."

"Should I try the water on my hair too?"

"Sure." He handed it to her. "It'll be like—what did you say during that movie? Clark Gable and his hair products?"

She took the bottle with a shrug. "If you want to be truly prepared, perhaps you should carry disguises in the trunk, along with bullet proof vests."

He smiled at her quirky humor, and watched her tousle her hair with wet fingers, tangling it into sexily disheveled locks.

**

Transformations complete, they got out of the car. They headed down the sidewalk, past the playground. Booth might have felt uneasy, but instead he was… unencumbered. No coat and tie, no visible badge or gun. Just Tony.

He took Roxy's arm, and she wrapped hers around it. Walking very close together, they took a moment to get their steps in sync. At first their arms bobbed awkwardly against each other, but then their strides coincided, and they settled into an easy rhythm.

"At least," Brennan commented, "I don't have to try walking in high heels this time."

Stay in character, he thought. "Aw, I liked them boots, Roxy."

"I know you do," she purred.

At his suggestion, she'd put her sunglasses back on her head like an impromptu headband. Those navy slacks were still too sensible for Roxy, who would've worn something tighter, but Booth figured the smoky eyes and low-cut blouse would hold the illusion.

Before going into the travel agency, they walked past on the opposite sidewalk, to get a look at Grever through the windows.

"Jeez, he looks like a linebacker." In fact, Booth had read that he'd played college football, but that had been some years ago, and it didn't look like he'd stayed athletic. He was tall and burly, with reddish-blond hair.

"Give him a beard and a kilt," Booth said, "and he could be an extra on _Braveheart_."

"I don't know what—" Brennan started to say, but she switched to Roxy without prompting. "Oh, you could take him, Tony. He's not as tall or in shape as that guy you beat in Vegas."

"Yeah…" He used their linked arms to draw her even closer. "Only," he growled in her ear, "with my girl's help."

She shivered. Roxy's smile didn't falter, but she pulled back to a more discreet distance.

Booth thought it might not be a bad kind of shiver, but whether from his words or actions, he couldn't tell.

They both knew full well it hadn't been Roxy who'd pointed out the anatomical weak points in his opponent, that had let him win the fight.

So when he said _his girl_, neither of them knew, at that moment, just which role they were playing.

**

**A/N: **Dear readers, I know you are very intelligent, so I hope that last line was not too obvious. But since I had to break the section here, it needed a sort of conclusion. I wanted to give you more scenes, but have been working so many evenings lately, it cuts into prime writing time. :(

Roxie or Roxy? I don't know why, but I like the -y version. It fits nicely next to Tony, and seems a little more down-to-earth, for Bren's alter-ego. Besides, the -ie version is Angela's former girlfriend.

Is next week Christmas already? I won't be traveling, so will probably post again around the same time…if anyone will be here to read it?


	45. Chapter 45

**Part 45**

They strolled into the travel agency. Brennan clung to _Tony's _arm, while surveying the interior. Various maps covered the wall, along with posters of sailboats cruising under purple mountains. On one side sat a computer desk, displaying travel brochures and airline information. At the other wall, Grever stood behind a counter. There was a door behind him, probably leading to offices at the back of the shop.

Brennan smiled casually, letting her partner handle the greetings and small talk, before starting in with their obvious cover story. "My fiancée and I," he announced, "are looking to take a little vacation."

"How many times I have to tell you, Tony?" She slapped him lightly on the stomach. "We're not actually engaged."

"C'mon, Roxy," he charmed. "After all this time, you still want to deny what we've got?" He purposefully bumped his hip into hers.

"I'm not _denying_. I just don't need a piece of paper to prove…"

She realized Grever was smirking at their argument. Booth smirked right back, apparently in some male-specific form of communication.

The counter that Grever stood behind dropped down to desk height, in the left corner of the room, and he invited them to take chairs across from it.

Brennan let go of Booth's arm, and he pulled a chair out for her. Even the cavalier Tony, it seemed, didn't lack that chivalrous streak.

Then he started regaling Grever with their trip to Vegas, making it sound like a typically extravagant good time. Maybe too extravagant, he admitted.

"I think we need something a bit cheaper this time, huh Rox?" Booth lounged back in his chair. "Somewhere you can't go playing craps at two in the morning."

"Hey, I was good," she pouted. "You said so yourself."

"Beginner's luck, baby. The point is," he turned to Grever, "we're hoping you could give us some ideas. You know, someplace exciting, that's not gonna break the bank."

Brennan was too busy maintaining her persona to make any conclusions about Grever. Except, she thought, with a look at his broad shoulders, that he certainly had the physical strength to cause the fractures on the victim's cranium. Perhaps enough to kill with a single blow, rather than two.

She listened to Grever's comments, while Booth fielded his questions about what they liked to do.

"Well, we're thinking we might try Kentucky or somewhere, for the race tracks." Booth glanced at her and winked. "She likes to watch the horse racing," he confided. "You know… All those strong, sweaty male animals, exerting themselves for her viewing pleasure." Booth was grinning at her while he said it.

"Well, it's not just males," Brennan responded. "There are often fillies who keep pace with the colts just fine."

Something flickered on Booth's face, like a warning. Was that not enough Roxy? "But I do like to watch." She tried a sultry smile. "What can I say, I know a good stallion when I see one." Her eyes raked shamelessly over Tony's body, and she touched her tongue, just briefly, to her lips.

Booth gave a laugh that sounded like a cough, and shifted in his seat, which didn't seem in character with Tony. Still, he returned the conversation to casinos and other entertainment.

"You could try Chester, West Virginia," Grever said. "It's about a five hour drive from D.C., but they have this…" He produced a brochure from behind the desk, "Mountaineer Casino Racetrack and Resort."

Booth flipped through the pages, reading the ad copy. "Year-round thoroughbred racing, luxury accommodations, salon and spa… Not bad, eh Roxy?"

She gave an appropriately enthusiastic nod, then listened again, while Booth skillfully maneuvered the conversation. Back on the topic of gambling, he hinted that they'd be interested in the not-quite legal kind.

Grever didn't confess anything, but he made it clear he had connections, should the two of them wish to engage in the more forbidden or profitable betting activities.

Booth then brought the topic around to sports, playing on his own and Grever's athletic past. "You ever hear of that," he asked, "guys fixing college games, to get big payouts?" He made it sound like he admired the "ballsy" men who had planned such a thing. And Grever seemed to agree with him: chuckling a little, he volunteered some insights about which sports were better or worse, if you wanted to play that game.

Brennan wondered if Booth would mention Dave Samson specifically, but decided it would sound too suspicious. Perhaps he had already gotten the necessary information about Grever's character, simply from talking to him.

Booth put his hand in his pocket, casually, and Brennan thought, he's going to break character.

"That's pretty interesting," he answered Grever's latest statement. "Because…people who know stuff like that—for example, Dave Samson…" He pulled his badge from his pocket. "The FBI's looking for them."

Grever's face flushed, and his eyes turned shifty. "Samson?"

Booth's posture still seemed relaxed, but Brennan knew he was ready for anything. Out of sight, she gripped the edge of her chair.

"How do you know him?" Grever demanded.

"Why don't you let me ask the questions here." Booth spoke blandly, but his eyes were hard.

"Okay…so what do you want to know?"

Booth started to reply, but apparently Grever's question had been a distraction. He made a break for it. He sprang out of his chair and dashed past the counter, to the door at the other end.

Booth and Brennan both jumped up, losing precious seconds as their shoulders collided.

"Bones, go around, head him off!"

As she rushed toward the front door, Booth vaulted over the desk in pursuit.

**

He heard the lock click behind Grever, just a second before he reached the door. He lost more time bruising his shoulder against it, and when that didn't work, pulling back to kick it open. Sprinting down the hall, he saw the exit door still open, leading to an alley behind the buildings.

Booth leaped down the few steps to the pavement, glancing in both directions. To the right was a dead end, and to the left, he caught sight of the man turning a corner toward the street.

He paused just long enough to drag up his pant leg and unholster his gun, before giving chase again.

**

Outside the shop, Brennan spent one agonized moment not knowing which way to turn, until she remembered seeing an alley on one side of the building, but not the other. She dashed around to that side and had taken only a few steps, between the brick buildings and past a dumpster, when Grever appeared. He rounded the far corner of the shop, and pounded toward her.

The alley narrowed at this end, further restricted by the trash bin she'd just passed. To get out onto the street, there was barely enough room for two people side by side. Brennan stood right in the middle.

Grever hesitated when he saw her, but when she didn't pull a gun on him, didn't do anything except stand there, she saw his face set with determination. He put his head down and sped up.

Booth shouldn't be far behind, with his gun. Brennan didn't know if Grever was the murderer, or what he was capable of. But if he got out onto the street, their chances of catching him would be much lower. And—she thought of the playground nearby—the chances would increase, that innocent people could be hurt.

Brennan wanted to get out of the way. This red-haired giant was barreling toward her, and something in her chest teetered on the edge of panic. But as she glanced around the narrow alley, it was clear what she would do.

**

Booth swung around the corner, and saw Grever headed right toward the street exit. Right toward Bones.

_Why _did I tell her to head him off? he cursed. Didn't I know this was going to happen?

She had positioned herself right in the center, framed by a red brick wall and a gray dumpster. Booth's instincts yelled at her to move, to stay safe. Grever _had _been a linebacker; he would think nothing of shoving past Brennan, or trampling her in his attempt to escape.

Booth slowed a little, dodging trash cans, and brought up his gun to test his aim. _Bones_, he wanted to shout, _get out of the way!_

She was much too close for comfort: right by the line of fire. He was a good shot, but with a moving target…

Booth now had to choose between shooting the suspect, an unarmed man in the back, or letting his partner get tackled by someone who outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

But then—he shouldn't assume she had no plan. This _was _Bones, after all.

**

It didn't work out quite the way it was supposed to. Maybe she miscalculated, or the alley really was too narrow.

As Grever thundered toward her, Brennan stood her ground, up to the last second. Then she sidestepped, balancing on her back foot and sticking the other out to trip him. But she was still too close.

Grever barreled past, his shoulder catching hers, and they both went down. His momentum knocked them forward, so that he sprawled on his face, while she tumbled sideways, landing hard on her left side.

The pavement bruised her elbow, and she had a brief glimpse of the building above, against a rectangle of sky, before she turned the fall into a roll, and sprang up again.

Grever still lay face down, looking stunned, but he brought his arms up, to start levering off the ground.

Brennan didn't think. As she leaped to her feet, she drew back and kicked him in the ribs.

He flattened back down, the air going out of him in an "oomph." Brennan hopped for a second on her other foot, feeling a sharp ache in her shin. Not from the kick just now, but from where his foot had crashed into her, as she tripped him.

It might have looked like she was going to kick him again, because Booth was still a few steps away when he said "Bones!" in a warning tone.

Instead she placed her heel on the back of Grever's neck, in a silent threat to stay still.

"Are you okay?" Booth panted. He gave her a quick, worried glance, pointing his gun down at the suspect.

She nodded, also breathless, and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Then Booth went around her, so Grever could see the weapon trained at his head. "Get the handcuffs," he told Bones. "In my pocket."

She stepped back from Grever, and slid her hand into Booth's trouser pocket. As she pulled out the cuffs, he nodded at her to secure the man's wrists. Brennan stepped over him, then bent to shove one knee into his back. Grabbing an arm in each hand, she pulled rather harder than was necessary, at an angle that would cause pain in the muscles and tendons of his rotator cuff. He grunted, his face still pressed into the concrete. "Hey, easy!"

"Shut up," Booth told him. "In fact, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…" He continued to mirandize him, while hauling Grever to his feet and pushing him forward, out of the alley.

**

**A/N: **I know that's not an ideal place to end this, but the next part's getting long, and important for B/B, so I need to take my time with it. But you know I won't make you wait longer than a week for updates. :)

FYI, Tony and Roxy each get one more line…

For all of you celebrating today, have a lovely Christmas.


	46. Chapter 46

**Part 46**

They marched Grever down the street, as surreptitiously as possible, and back to the parking lot. Booth made him sit on the ground while he got on the radio, requesting a car to come pick him up.

Once the call was made, Booth looked at his partner again. Ignoring the suspect between them, he asked, "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine. Just bruised my elbow." She glanced at the bookie, who had a scrape on his chin from the pavement. "It's only fair you ask him, too."

"Ah," Booth dismissed it. "He'll live."

"Hey," Grever whined, "she kicked me for no reason."

"You, shut up," Booth said. "It was easily self defense. Besides, you ran. And that makes you look real guilty right about now."

They didn't have long to wait before the officers arrived to take him off their hands.

"Let him stew a while in the interrogation room," Booth told them. He and Bones watched Grever get pushed into the back seat, and the car pulled away with a crunch of gravel.

Brennan had just realized how much her elbow was hurting. Putting her hand over her sleeve, she said, "Oh."

Booth saw blood smearing her fingers. "Shit, Bones! Why didn't you say something?" He leaned over her arm, trying to see the injury. The pale green fabric of her shirt was torn, stained with dirt and blood.

"I didn't know the skin was broken," she said.

"Is there anything else you're not telling me? God, I saw the whole thing. He could've crushed you! You could've cracked your head open on the corner of that dumpster!"

"Well, I obviously didn't collide with it, so there's no need to..."

He glared at her, and she sighed. "I also bruised my tibia, when I tripped him. But I'm fine, Booth."

He lifted her arm up in front of her, so he could get a better look. Pulling at the already torn fabric of the sleeve, he ripped it open.

"Booth! I like this shirt."

"Sorry," he grunted, peering at the damage.

A patch of skin had been scraped away, the raw flesh already turned from pink to red. But half an inch next to it was a cut, plastered with fresh and dried blood. It wasn't too long or deep, Booth saw with relief. But a thin strip of skin had been scored away, maybe from a piece of glass or an irregular patch of cement. It left an open gash, and at one edge, the loose bit of skin still clung, twisted and sticky.

Booth's grimace made Brennan crane her neck to peer at the wound. She winced, having to bend her elbow as far as possible. After examining it for a second, she glanced back to him. "Don't look like that, Booth. It's not a disaster."

He walked around her to go open the back of the truck. "I'm sorry, but it _is _a disaster, at least a small one, when we go out in the field and my partner ends up bleeding." He hadn't meant to say that quite so vehemently. But it was the truth. This was only their second confrontation after Anders, and both times, she'd come out bleeding.

"Well, are _you _all right?" Bones asked. "You could have injured yourself, sprinting along the alley or breaking down doors."

At the back of the car, Booth pushed aside equipment to find the first aid kit. In the interest of fairness, he thought he should be honest. "Maybe my shoulder's going to hurt tomorrow, trying to open that door."

"You should let me take a look at it, if it does." Bones stood next to him, peering into the trunk. She couldn't help noting the ironic placement of body armor next to medical supplies.

"I don't imagine band-aids and disinfectant are going to do much good," she said, "if bulletproof vests fail."

"Bones—" Booth slammed the door shut. "Will you just sit down and be quiet, so I can stop you from bleeding?" The words were more sharp than he intended, but he smiled ruefully to reduce the sting.

Brennan hadn't complained he was being over-protective, but she didn't look reconciled to the idea either.

He tried a little wheedling, as Tony. "C'mon, Roxy. I'm your _guy_. It's my job to take care of you." Now his smile exercised all of Tony's boastfulness, but underneath it… Brennan thought she saw vulnerability. Booth begging her not to give him the cold shoulder.

She nodded, to acquiesce. That was the reaction they both expected: a simple, neutral gesture. But Roxy, typically, took matters into her own hands. Brennan's mouth curved into a salacious smile. "All right, you can touch me, tiger," she drawled. "As long as you don't play rough… _this _time."

Tony's smile had frozen into shocked pleasure. Now Booth tried to hide his own grin, as _Roxy _sauntered past. He opened the back door of the car, and they climbed in, to sit facing each other.

Booth took some gauze pads from the first aid kit. While he freed them from their sterile paper wrapper, Brennan gingerly rolled her sleeve up past her elbow.

She wrinkled her nose at the torn fabric and complained, "I really liked this shirt."

"Well," Booth suggested, "you could get it tailored. Make it into a short-sleeved shirt."

Brennan seemed impressed by the common sense proposal. "Yes, I could."

He reached for her arm. "Okay, let's see if we can fix this up."

"I can do it, Booth."

He raised his eyebrows. "Haven't we just been through this? Besides, you only have one hand. It's more efficient, if I help." Using logic on her, he thought—never fails. But that was a cover for what he really wanted to do. He wanted to beg her. _Just let me do this, Bones. Please. Let me take care of you._

He started to dab gently at the blood, to get a better look at what he was doing. It was awkward for Bones to hold her arm up at an angle, but after a second she rested her hand on her opposite shoulder, and that looked more comfortable.

They both still wore their 'disguises,' with unbuttoned shirts, and stylishly mussed hair. When Brennan crossed her arm over her chest, it pushed her breasts closer together. Their creamy curves, just there, at the V of her shirt…

Booth frowned at the blood on her skin, rather than letting his eyes stray.

He reached for the bottle of disinfectant. It was a spray version, so he could simply direct it and squeeze the top. He misted a generous coating over the injury, glancing at Brennan's face when she hissed a little at the sting.

Then his brows furrowed as he studied the cut. "Bones, this is… It's gaping open a tiny bit. Shouldn't you get treated by a professional? Maybe it needs a couple stitches to keep it closed."

She lifted her arm, tilting her head to get a second look. "Technically, you're correct, but it's just a minor wound. Not deep enough to expose the bursa. It might leave a scar, but should heal fine on its own. In fact, stitches are contra-indicated in areas like this, where there's a lot of movement near a joint, and the skin undergoes natural stretching."

"Okay… You've made your case." Booth cupped her elbow in one palm, to continue tending it.

Then he got a curious look on his face. "Listen, um…kicking Grever back there? I thought I might have to restrain you for a second."

He had a fond flashback to one of their first chases. Bones had neatly tripped the suspect, then confided to Booth with a naughty smile, _I feel like kicking him. _

"Oh, that," she said. "It was instinct, really. Or possibly revenge, for knocking me down. Or even, remnants of the rather misanthropic weekend that I had."

"Misanthropic weekend?"

She nodded. "Because I…did some thinking. And feeling. Not necessarily in that order."

"Uh huh," Booth responded. But her cryptic remark would have to wait, because he needed her advice again. He nodded at her cut elbow. "This bit of skin that got scraped off? Should I…?"

"It's dead, now. Just cut it off."

"Okay…" He searched through the first aid kit. "Looks like tweezers are the best we can do. But they're made for plucking, not snipping. I don't want to hurt you."

"It's fine, Booth. Just do it."

He leaned close, steadying her arm with one hand, and directing the tweezers with the other. As close to the skin as possible, without poking the already tender flesh. Then he held his breath and clipped.

Bones flinched a little, but the tiny strip of skin was free.

Then Booth held up some packets of ointment. "How's this, to put on before a band-aid?"

She agreed. "I also have some salve that I can use, at home. Keeping cuts moist and covered is a good way to facilitate healing."

Booth struggled to open the foil wrapper. "Okay, Bones, just one more question. Back there, talking about racetracks? Tony…the _stallion_? Where do you come up with this stuff?"

She smiled, looking slightly embarrassed.

"First," he chuckled, "it's Tony the tiger, and now…" Booth was losing the fight to suppress laughter. "Now it's Tony… the _Italian stallion_?"

She laughed with him, then lifted one shoulder. "I am a novelist. Over time, I develop insights into characters. I don't think role playing is much different."

"It's just...you gotta admit, that was kind of over the top." Booth had finally gotten the salve open, and positioned it over Brennan's elbow.

"Aren't Tony and Roxy 'over the top' kind of people?"

"Yep. They are a full-throttle kind of couple." He squeezed two dollops of salve onto the injured skin, and watched her smile fade into thoughtfulness. Was she wondering the same thing he was? How much of that is fiction, and how much is _us_?

**

Booth had left the car door open behind him, and they could still hear the shouts of kids from the playground, or a cautionary parental voice.

Now he was sorting through the band-aids, looking for ones of the appropriate size.

He heard Brennan sigh.

"I could get used to this," she said softly. "And that's the problem."

"This? You mean Tony and Roxy?"

She didn't respond to his crooked grin. "Someone… You. Taking care of me."

Booth went very still. His phone call with Angela suddenly made a lot more sense. _We depend on each other, and that's a big deal._

"Bones," he said gently, "that's not a problem. It's what people do."

She gave him a world-weary, heartbreaking look.

"I know, but… I can't have that faith in people that you do. Because things happen. Families break. Suspects run. People die."

He was sure, at that moment, she was afraid for him, just as he'd been afraid for her in that alley.

"Bones…if this is about Anders, or Rawling's hostage scenario—"

"No, it's not just because of that." She searched for an explanation. "It's… everything."

And he could guess what that was. Being abandoned by her family. The risks of this job. Their partnership, where so much swirled beneath the surface.

"Bones," he said, "listen to me. I am your friend. Even if, sometime in the future, we're not partners. Even if we're not working together, or we're not…"

_Even if we're not lovers._

Booth shook his head and zeroed in on what mattered. "I will always be your friend, Temperance. I'll be here."

Her mouth was grave, eyes shining with the hint of tears. "_Can _you promise that?"

He swallowed. "You don't believe it?"

"I can trust in your promise," she said steadily. "But not in the world."

For a second, he didn't know what to say. But then defiance rose up in him. "Screw the world. We're talking about you and me. Sometimes you just have to accept things, Bones—on faith. Can you do that?"

He realized he'd just said _faith _to Temperance Brennan. He realized his statements were not as clear as she usually demanded. But she didn't look confused. They both knew something big was at stake, even if they couldn't pin down what it was.

Brennan's head moved in a slight, negative motion. Part of her—he would bet on this—part of her wanted to say yes.

"Not," she answered, "…not yet."

Booth could almost hear the meanings underneath. I can't relax too much. I can't tear down the fortress. Together, we're not more than friends…yet.

**

They remembered they were supposed to be dressing Brennan's elbow. Booth tested the size and positioning of several band-aids, before finding a configuration that wouldn't place adhesive over one of the wounds. After smoothing the bandage carefully over her skin, he gathered up the blood-stained gauze and empty wrappings. Without speaking, they got into the front seats, and started driving back.

He was about to turn on the radio, when Bones spoke abruptly. "Booth, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I never apologized for what I said in the hallway. Before we left for Texas…and afterward, too. I think I hurt you, but I didn't mean it. I was trying to protect myself. By…" She hadn't known what she was going to say, until that second. "By not needing you."

That's it, he thought. That's what Angela was trying to tell me.

"You already did apologize, Bones. You've been doing it. With actions, if not words."

"But I want to explain."

He stayed quiet, waiting.

"I wanted to know for myself, why I said those mean or irrational things. And… I don't blame you, for not helping me in the suite. It's just…that's the role you've set for yourself. Protecting people. Saving them." Booth kept his eyes on the road, knowing Bones was watching him.

"So," she said, "if that pattern is broken, I have to notice. That's all." She paused. "Booth? Does that make sense?"

"That makes perfect sense. You're phrasing it in a nicer way than I would have."

Her voice went quiet. "Do you still blame yourself?"

He was silent for too long.

"That other thing you said, how I didn't get to be the hero?"

Bones looked contrite, but he waved it away. Fortunately, this part of the drive did not demand full attention, because he was seeing something other than the traffic and road signs.

"When I was little…I was always playing soldier with my brother, or running around pretending to be a fireman. That's what I wanted to be for years," he said with a nostalgic grin. "I had this red plastic fireman hat, and my mom could tell you, I used to wear it _everywhere_." The smile faded. "The thing is…you imagine being a hero, wearing some cool uniform and saving people… and I guess you lose those illusions when you get older, but still… The first time you're in combat, you're just scared shitless. And a large part of that…" Booth stopped to take a breath. "It's being terrified that you can't protect the people you care about. I mean, my guys in the unit… Or if Parker was in danger. And…"

He shot her a turbulent glance. "And now.

"So, basically, yeah. I still blame myself a little. It's going to be hard to stop doing that."

"I'm sorry."

"Bones." Now his voice scraped in his throat. "You know this, right? I would have done almost anything to prevent what happened to you. Anything."

She blinked at him slowly. "I believe you.

"Although," her voice returned to its typical timbre, "_anything _is a bit of an overstatement. It's best to save superlatives for the truly extreme situation. Otherwise, what means do we have for comparison?"

Booth knew she was playing her pedantic scholar role, trying to draw him into an argument to break the somber mood.

_That situation was extreme enough, Bones._

He couldn't quite smile when he looked at her. But he nodded, to show he appreciated the effort.

**

**A/N:** Holy cow, that was a lot of B/B. With a couple scenes still to come. Had enough yet?

Booth's hero speech was inspired by this line: "I'd lost those illusions a long time ago, but I hadn't understood until now how much _heroism _meant living in terror that you wouldn't be able to protect those you loved." From _Kushiel's Mercy _by Jacqueline Carey. (Confidential to Sherri: that's the SIXTH book Phedre appears in, although she only stars in three. Think you'll make it that far? ;)


	47. Chapter 47

**Guess it's time for another Disclaimer: **I do not own Bones or these characters. But I dearly wish I did.

**Part 47**

They agreed to stop at Brennan's apartment before returning to the Hoover, so she could change her shirt.

Booth shifted his grip on the steering wheel. He felt recovered from his pessimistic phase, enough to notice Bones playing with a lock of her hair, twisting it around one finger. This was more like Roxy than Brennan. Even though her hair was starting to smooth out of Roxy's stylish tangle, she still wore that striking eyeliner, and the alluringly unbuttoned blouse.

He had to ask. "What are you thinking about, Bones?"

"Oh—" She glanced at him. "Roxy."

He couldn't help smirking. "Yeah? What about her?"

"Well… She—and Tony—never met Anders or Rawling. I thought it was…nice, to be that person for a while."

Booth could have said 'I told you so,' but that was much too harsh for what he felt right now. He was simply glad.

"Maybe," Brennan said, "we could play this game again sometime."

"Game?" He looked up, like he'd caught her in a slip of the tongue.

"Well, it is role playing. I mean—if the situation calls for it," she stammered. "We could go undercover. To catch suspects unaware."

"Yeah," he repeated, with a lazy smile. "To catch suspects."

She frowned, wondering why Booth seemed much more amused than the conversation seemed to warrant.

"I suppose you were right," she resumed analyzing. "For more than just catching Grever, being different characters probably helped take our minds off…" She hesitated, but he knew exactly what she meant.

It took their minds off what could have been an even more stressful situation. If they'd had time to think—this first field investigation since Anders, and what could go wrong—the anxiety could have sabotaged them. Instead, they'd played at being newlyweds. Well, _not actually engaged_, as Bones insisted.

As they neared the apartment, Booth cast a sly look at his partner. I was _right_, he told himself. Being Roxy…it gave Brennan more freedom. It let her be the aggressor in sexually charged situations. (Which, with Tony and Roxy, was nearly every situation.)

And—damn, it had been fun.

**

Booth waited in the car while Brennan changed out of her torn shirt. She emerged from the building wearing a simple white one, buttoned up to a sensible distance. She'd put the navy jacket back on, and with the matching pants, she could have been a schoolteacher. Like Roxy's business persona—still with that dark liner accenting her eyes.

Booth realized he could easily get carried away with this role playing.

He figured he should button his own shirt back up, but after discarding his tie as Tony, couldn't bring himself to put it back on.

Bones got in and shut the car door. But before Booth could re-start the ignition, she stopped him. "I shouldn't distract you anymore while you're driving; it's not safe. But there's something else we should talk about.

"It's a logical extension of what we were saying…but you're not going to like it."

Booth waited, not liking it already.

"Although our teamwork today was successful," Brennan said, "will we have to stop working together?"

"What? Why?"

"I mean, are we both too sensitive to when the other person might be in danger? I think, what happened in the suite… hasn't it given us a greater awareness that the world is unsafe, and that we put ourselves in harm's way? Because," she finished, "we like to fix things or put them in order, and yet…there's so much we can't control."

"Damn, Bones, are you channeling Sweets all of a sudden?"

She looked like she had no patience for jokes.

"All right, no." He rested his hands on the wheel. "I see what you're saying. Of course we're going to be more worried, after what happened. But…we worked great today. We were like undercover action heroes. I mean, it wasn't perfect, but we still… We _work_, Bones. Don't we?"

"We do."

"And yeah," Booth said, "I regretted it after the fact, telling you to go head him off. But we didn't hesitate. That's the key thing. We didn't start second-guessing ourselves.

"The awareness of risk might be greater, like you said. And…" He glanced out the car window, as if looking for distraction. "Maybe I was more…scared than usual." He turned to Bones. "Were you?"

"In the alley," she said, "there was a moment… I could've been more scared. If I'd let it."

"Yeah," Booth agreed softly. "But we didn't let it." Then his tone lifted. "Well, if we have to, we can always go hide under the bed together, afterward."

Her brows wrinkled in a way that told him, 'you're being silly.'

"So, I think we'll be okay, Bones," he proclaimed. "As long as you promise not to bleed next time."

"Booth, I did not _intend _to—"

But of course, he was teasing her. Trying to charm, now, with his smile. And he was succeeding.

"I should have known you wouldn't let a suspect run you over." Booth's expression turned admiring. "You kicked ass today, Bones."

"Yeah? I guess I did." Her answering smile bordered on wicked. "So did you. _Tony_."

**

They interrogated Grever that afternoon. He didn't say much, as cautioned by his very annoying lawyer. But Booth thought he was genuinely surprised by the victim's death.

"Samson's friend?" Grever asked. "That guy Serge? He was _murdered_?" His voice held dismay, if only for realizing he was now a murder suspect, not just here on gambling charges.

The partners returned to Booth's office afterward. "I don't think he killed our victim," Booth mused. "But that doesn't mean he didn't pay someone else to do it.

"So, we'll look into all Grever's records and contacts… Get a hold of his bank account and see if he's made any mysteriously large payouts to some shady character."

Bones had taken her usual chair on the other side of his desk. "What was the news that Charlie told you, before the interview?"

"Oh," Booth said, remembering. "It was the stuff our tech guys found on Samson's computer, that they confiscated to check out his gambling info. Looks like he was also running some online scams. You know, selling high-end sports equipment on EBay, and then when people sent him money, never producing the merchandise." Booth leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak in protest. "Apparently he got started on this with his dad, as some extension of their online poker. I guess they just got a kick out of cheating people out of their money."

"Well," Brennan said, "nefarious activity can often become grounds for male bonding, when—"

"Please, Bones, no speech today, okay?" He smiled, so she wouldn't be offended.

**

When they went back to the Jeffersonian, Booth insisted that Cam take a look at Brennan's elbow. "Just a second opinion, Bones," he soothed. "Just to be safe."

So she found herself standing in her office with both of them, holding up her arm with ill-concealed impatience, while Booth peeled back one edge of the band-aid.

Cam surveyed the injury. "Ouch," she said. "That's gonna leave a nice little scar."

"Cam—!" Booth started, but she waved at him to calm down.

"Dr. Brennan is right, this should be perfectly fine. Human skin has remarkable healing properties."

Booth grumbled, but accepted the prognosis.

"See," Brennan said, "I told you it would be fine."

"Oh," Booth groaned theatrically, "so this is the thanks I get, trying to look after my partner? An _I told you so_?"

Cam watched them with amusement in her eyes. The affectionate bickering followed her as she slipped out of the office, unnoticed.

"Well, maybe next time you'll trust my judgment."

"Come on, I always trust your judgment, Bones. At least about science things."

**

The next day they had their much-postponed meeting with Caroline, in one of the FBI conference rooms. The first thing she did when she entered was to offer them each a solemn handshake.

"Congratulations," she said. "If that's the right word. I realize I haven't seen you since that man Rawling was shot. So—both the bad guys have been neutralized. And maybe neither of you shot them, as would've been fitting, but at least now, we only have _one _horrible felon eating up resources in prison."

Brennan could appreciate the attorney's bluntness. It would have been simpler, and more efficient, if Anders were dead too.

They sat down around one end of the long table. Booth saw Brennan start to rest her elbows on the surface, then wince and lean back.

"Hey," he nodded at her arm. "How's the elbow?"

She gave a half-shrug. "It hurts."

Booth noticed she wore a brown jacket over a darker brown shirt. It looked like the jacket she'd had in the suite. But would she have kept it? She might've gotten rid of the blouse—its white marred by spots of blood, from the wounds Rawling's fists had inflicted on her. Booth had a sudden, horrible insight: would Bones be able to stand wearing the same clothing Anders had touched, and forced her to remove?

He shoved the thoughts away, and listened to what the attorney was saying.

Caroline wanted to speak to them about Anders' upcoming trial. She gave updates about the preliminary proceedings and the official list of charges.

"I'm shooting for the strictest sentence for this man, I can assure you. Even so, it might be possible to plea bargain, and bypass a trial. However…" Her mouth made a disgruntled shape. "Anders is digging in his heels. Like it would be an insult to his pride," she huffed, "to plead guilty to at least one charge? Guess he's just too arrogant."

"Yeah," Booth said darkly. "We could've told you that."

Caroline focused next on Brennan. "So, in terms of a trial… Do you still want me to the be the prosecutor on this case?"

Brennan frowned. "Do I still want you? Why are you asking?"

"Cherie, you're going to be called as a witness," Caroline reminded her. "It can be tough to talk about this sort of thing to begin with. It can be worse when you're on the stand and someone you know is questioning you. Someone you hopefully count as a friend, rather than some sympathetic but professional stranger."

Brennan considered for a moment. "Why are you only asking me? You haven't asked Booth if he would be comfortable." Because, she thought, we were both hurt and humiliated. Just not in the same way.

Caroline tilted her head, deciding it was a fair objection. She turned her directness on Booth. "And you, cher? You gonna be okay with me asking you about _everything _that happened at that hotel?"

Booth wasn't prepared for the question. He pictured Caroline patrolling the courtroom while he sat in the witness box, asking him to say how he was disarmed, bound with his own cuffs, and injected with some drug.

"Yeah," he said dully. "I'll be fine."

Caroline turned back to Brennan, who answered her original query. "Booth says you're the best. I don't want someone else. I want you."

"Well." The lawyer took a second to look flattered. "This is all very sweet. Now, back to business before I have to hug someone.

"I haven't said anything about your actual testimony. You'll both be on the stand at some point, to go over the main sequence of events. But—" Her phone rang from her pocket, and she looked at the caller ID. "Oh, lord. Sorry—I really should answer this." Caroline stood up and moved to the other end of the room for her conversation.

Booth turned to his partner, then had to pause and appreciate her appearance. Indirect light from the windows behind her shone on her hair. Not the brilliant chestnut-gold that direct sun would highlight, but this time, an ethereal glow.

She must, he thought, have an unconscious knack for placing herself right where the light will touch her in the most beautiful way. Or, it could just be me. I'd see her as beautiful no matter where she is or what she's wearing.

"Bones," he said softly. "I don't want you to have to testify if it can be avoided."

"Why? It's part of the process."

"I know, but… having to tell everything that happened… in front of an entire courtroom of people? Judge, jury, lawyers—that bastard Anders himself. And Caroline. And me." Booth cringed a little. He would be tempted to skip that day in court, but if Bones could be brave enough to tell it, he could be brave enough to hear it.

She was irritated by his recitation of obvious knowledge. "I know how trials proceed, Booth. I've been to any number of—I can be very clinical and compartmentalized. I can do it."

He leaned toward her, elbows on the table. "Bones, some things you can't compartmentalize; I don't care how smart you are. Yeah, you've been an expert witness. But you've never been on the other side of the line. As a _direct _witness. It's not the same, okay?"

Her throat moved, but she didn't show other signs of distress. "I have no reason to be ashamed," she said stubbornly.

"No, you don't, I know. But…that doesn't make it easy."

"Easy?" She said incredulously. "You think anything about this has been _easy_? It's not—" Her voice rose, and she would have kept going, but Booth's stricken expression made her cut off.

Across the room, Caroline shot them a probing glance, before continuing her conversation.

Brennan shut her eyes briefly. "I understand you're trying to protect me. But if my testifying can help get Anders a harsher punishment…" She looked Booth right in the eye. "I can do it."

Damn, Bones, he thought. I know you're tough, and I admire your grit.

After that, he would hold his tongue.

**

Caroline was finishing her phone call. "No, you'll get the documents when I'm good and ready, and not a moment before."

She heaved a sigh and came back to sit at the table. Glancing from Booth to Brennan, she seemed to consider asking them what they'd argued about.

Instead, she adjusted her leopard-print scarf, and picked up where she'd left off. "Testimony. We'll probably ask for an outline of events, to confirm the established information. Unless I'm wrong, and I'm rarely wrong, you won't have to go into the gory details." She looked at Brennan. "We have the physical evidence that you were roughed up, and the DNA match with Anders. So it will be pretty clear there was nothing consensual about it.

"I hate to put it this way, cherie, but that rape charge is not the worst one on the list here. It might take a back seat, in terms of the legal proceedings."

That made sense to Brennan, and she nodded. Anders had traded drugs. He'd committed, or at least covered up, a murder.

Booth looked more relieved than she was. So Bones won't have to tell _everything_, he thought. But I just pissed her off for no reason, hinting that she's not prepared to be a witness.

"Caroline," he said slowly, "what's your take on the defense attorney? How's he going to spin this whole thing? I mean, for Miranda Charles' murder… They better not try to blame Rawling—just because he's dead and can't defend himself—when we all know Anders was the brains behind it. And…" This, he said reluctantly, feeling sick. "Sometimes, they try to say the woman was… willing to play rough, or…" Booth couldn't look at his partner. "You know, saying she didn't resist, or made some bargain, with… sexual favors."

"You let me worry about that," Caroline cut in. "Yes, sometimes those defense lawyers get into snake mode, but I will shut them down."

Brennan had been silent, but now she asked, "You believe he's guilty? On all charges?"

"Yes, I do," Caroline assured her. "I know that's not necessary for my job description. But prosecutors are supposed to find the truth, like both of you. Not," she muttered, "just rack up convictions, as popular opinion would have it. But in this case, I have no doubt. I want to get this son of a bitch as much as you do."

Brennan nodded again, tightly. Her fury toward Anders felt just as strong as it had over the weekend. He lived, she thought, by breaking rules, and hurt a lot of people in the process. Now we have to follow the rules to put him in jail.

I _would _rather Anders had been shot, like Rawling was. Quick and brutal. The way he used me. But then, a gunshot was swift. Even merciful. It would not be savage enough.

Caroline was excusing herself, saying she would be late for another meeting. But she must have read some of Brennan's emotion, because as she stood up to leave, she said, "He'll get no privileges, where he's going. And I aim to put him in jail until he drops dead of old age." Reaching the door of the conference room, she tossed over her shoulder, "And we can hope he's the clumsy type, who's always dropping the soap in the shower."

When she'd disappeared down the hall, Booth saw a puzzled expression on Brennan's face.

"Do I have to draw you a diagram, Bones? Come on… bunch of guys cooped up together, no women in sight…"

"Oh," she said. "You're referring to homo-erotic encounters, that are not consensual. It _had _occurred to me…just not in that context. But Caroline is right. That would be poetic justice."

**

**A/N: **People, I really wish I could publish this. I haven't looked for any rules, if they exist, like for Star Trek fanfic. I would love to just be a writer, with my own projects and characters, but right now I'm too obsessed with B/B!

Does anyone have a theory about how this murder case will turn out? Or does no one care? ;) And just so you know, I don't intend to include Anders' trial in this story…because the main attraction is elsewhere.


	48. Chapter 48

**A/N: **I really thought that alley chase scene would be a sort of resolution, and it was. But now it doesn't seem like B&B could shake it off so easily. So, you know what that means… a little more angst.

And guess what, I spoke too soon about skipping Anders' trial. Maybe it does fit after all (next chapter). But briefly, because I'm not a Law & Order fan, and I don't want to sit through all that procedural stuff.

**Part 48**

When Brennan returned to the lab, she found Hodgins bent over his work station, looking meek.

"He just got told off by Cam," Angela explained. "For being overzealous about the bugs and slime." She had joined Brennan in her office, and perched on the arm of the sofa. "You know how he gets sometimes, blinded by details and can't see the big picture. So there he was, going happily along, categorizing every particle of soil from that drainage ditch, every insect and plant spore, and totally forgetting to prioritize the samples taken from the actual _skeleton_. Anyway, Cam found out, and set him straight. So I think he has some preliminary findings for you. Just be gentle with him, okay?"

"Was Cam that harsh with him?"

"No, sweetie. I'm teasing. And even if she was, he can handle it."

"Well," Brennan said, "it's possible Hodgins has delayed the investigation, because the bookie we caught yesterday wasn't the actual murderer. He's still out there… but Booth doesn't think he's dangerous anymore. He just did it to silence the victim."

**

When Booth got out of the meeting with Caroline, he realized his protectiveness toward Bones had toughened into an emotion that was almost as familiar: rage toward Anders. So he did the only thing he could: he went to the firing range. It was either that, or drive to the penitentiary, demand to see Anders in his cell, and shoot him right between the eyes.

**

Booth had a dream that night. It was strange that it waited a day, rather than occurring right after they caught Grever. But he didn't need Sweets to analyze it for him, because it was pretty damn clear.

He was chasing the suspect down the alley, knowing Bones had gone to cut off the escape. But the passage seemed darker than it had been, and much longer. It stretched on endlessly, past too many buildings, with bewildering turns. Booth tried to hurry, knowing the suspect would have gotten to Brennan by now. He wasn't even sure if it was Grever, or Anders, or Rawling—but he knew something terrible would happen. His feet could not move fast enough.

Finally, the alley opened up, and he reached his partner. He saw the criminal escaping around the corner of the building. Booth fired a desperate shot, but he missed.

Bones was picking herself up from the wet, dirty ground. Tears marked her cheeks, and her shirt was blotched with blood.

"Where were you?" Her voice shook with anger and betrayal. "I thought you were right behind me. Why didn't you come?"

**

The past two nights, Brennan had been lying awake. For what she thought was a silly yet understandable reason: her elbow hurt.

It was a small rip in the skin, but nonetheless preoccupying, especially when she had nothing to do but lie in bed feeling it. Resting the arm across her body seemed the safest position, because she had an unreasonable fear that something would hit it again, causing further damage to the already tender skin.

And her mind couldn't help replaying the scene from the alley. At the time, she'd done the right thing. She had not panicked. But in retrospect, Grever grew more frightening. That look on his face, when he disregarded her and kept running… Relying on brute force to get his way… He was like Anders. Neither man cared if he hurt her, in pursuit of his own selfish goals.

Brennan shifted onto her side, careful of her left arm. Then she tugged at the pillowcase, because it had developed creases that dug into her cheek. Now she felt too hot, but pushing back the covers made her cold.

If only Grever _was _the killer. Then the suspect would be safely behind bars. This case would be finished, and she could breathe a sigh of relief.

But it wasn't finished. Another confrontation awaited them. The murderer was still out there, for her and Booth to find.

Brennan shoved back the blankets and got out of bed. To do something she hadn't needed to do for weeks: check the locks on her doors and windows.

**

They met for breakfast at the diner the next morning. Booth badly needed coffee after his restless night, and Brennan didn't feel much better.

She knew that short bouts of stress, like the alley chase, were actually good for the body. The fight or flight response kicked systems into high gear, stimulating the senses, even enhancing memory and immunity. It was a brilliant system, that helped humans across the eons, to flee predators or burning buildings, to give rousing speeches, or chase down criminals.

The key word about stress, however, was _short_.

Brennan glanced at Booth's shadowed eyes, over her steaming coffee mug.

Perhaps being Tony and Roxy had distracted them from the all-too-real dangers of this job. Dangers that were now hitting both of them harder than they'd expected.

But, for the moment, they ignored it.

"Hodgins confirmed time of death," Brennan began. "The week the victim disappeared is consistent with the plant and insect activity in the ditch where he was found. There are a lot more samples to analyze, but Hodgins did find one thing…" Brennan pulled several computer print-outs from her bag, and handed them to Booth.

"Fibers," he said. "Car upholstery?"

"Yes. Trace fibers, in the what was left of the victim's clothing. Unfortunately, it was such a small sample, it only consisted of single strands. Most upholstery fabrics use several strands twisted together, and the type and colors are what distinguish different car manufacturers. So," she said, "as you can see, the list of potential vehicles is rather long."

Booth shrugged. "Gives me something else to do. I'll start looking at all the suspects' cars, see if they're on this list." His eyes skimmed over the paper she'd given him.

"We can't be certain the fiber came from the murderer's car," Bones reminded him. "It could have been from some other vehicle the victim was in, prior to his death."

"Right. So I'll check his own car, along with friends and family, to see if _they're _on the list. Then we'll know if this evidence is useful or not."

"Evidence," she countered, "is always _useful_. Just…not always relevant."

Booth conceded the point. They fell silent again, but still, periodically, eyed each other with concern.

The mild weather had blown away, and it was a cloudy, brisk day. They'd kept their coats on, to warm up. This breakfast crowd seemed thinner, with muted conversations, and an unhurried clink of tableware as the servers delivered hot food.

Booth munched his omelet, wondering why Bones had neglected to tell him about the high cholesterol content of the sausage links he'd already scarfed down. She was neatly cutting her spinach quiche into bite-size squares.

Since she wore her coat, Booth couldn't see her injured elbow. And he couldn't decide if he should ask how it was. Would that just annoy her? It had only been two days, and he'd asked about it yesterday too.

But he could still hear her voice from last night's dream: its tremor and suffering. _Where were you? Why didn't you come? _

He was not going to tell her about that product of his subconscious. No way. He didn't need to fish for reassurances. Nor make her self-conscious about suspect conflicts, or his protective instincts.

They had finished breakfast before either spoke again.

"Yesterday, Bones…" Booth offered, "I hope I wasn't too much of an idiot. I didn't mean to imply that… taking the stand during the trial, that you might not…"

He couldn't form a coherent apology, but she understood. "No, it's okay. Being in court… it's obviously not going to be pleasant, for either of us."

She stared out the window, where two joggers loped past, and cars honked or swerved in their usual city rush.

"Caroline said…"

Bones paused for so long, Booth knew she was truly upset, and needed time to articulate it.

"She implied that she feels the way we do. Wishing Anders were dead, too."

Booth waited, watching the emotions behind her eyes.

"But he's not, and… He _knows _things. He'll probably use it to amuse himself," she said bitterly. "How he had control over us."

Booth couldn't refute that. Now Bones seemed to be wrestling with something she didn't want to think, let alone say.

Finally, she did.

"I don't want him to be alive. Knowing… what he knows about me."

Those last words, her voice was so quiet, he almost couldn't hear it.

Quiet, and ashamed.

"He doesn't know anything, Bones," Booth said gently. "Not _really_. For a person to know something about you, you have to _let _them. And you didn't let him."

Sudden tears filled her eyes. He hoped, from his kindness. And remembered pain, but also, an affirmation of what she _wanted _to believe.

Booth pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. She took it brusquely, always a little intolerant of her own emotional response.

He said, "What I wouldn't give for a time machine right about now."

She sniffed and dabbed her eyes, giving him a quizzical look.

"Going back to fix things, Bones. Things you wish had turned out differently."

She agreed, then.

She did not say, 'Time travel is scientifically impossible.'

"I wish…" Her voice hadn't recovered from its despondent pitch. "I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I could forget. But I can't."

Booth felt his chest ache at this rare moment, this irrational wanting. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

"I know, Bones. I know."

**

**A/N: **I borrowed two things in this section. Brennan's thoughts about short bouts of stress being beneficial, I learned from Jennifer Ackerman's _Sex Sleep Eat Drink Dream: A Day in the Life of Your Body,_ p87-88.

And her closing wish, "I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I could forget it. And I can't," is from Jacqueline Carey's _Kushiel's Mercy_, p459.


	49. Chapter 49

**Part 49**

The next morning, Caroline called Brennan's office.

"Guess what, cherie. We've been moved up on the docket. The case before ours will settle out of court, so Anders' trial is starting next week. You and Booth will be called to the stand by the end of that week. And I'll let you know on Monday when we should meet, individually, to prepare for your testimony."

The attorney sighed. "Guess that means I'll be doing homework all weekend, making sure my case is watertight, rather than kicking back with a nice glass of wine. You can thank me later."

Brennan hung up, and sat motionless at her desk. Objectively, it should not matter that the trial was a week or two closer. It might even be preferable, to get it over with quickly. But subjectively…

She felt like she'd been hit by a linebacker.

Brennan had never made a habit of dwelling on things she could not change. She and Booth could not catch the murderer, in this current case, until more evidence came to light. Nor should she worry about the impending trial until she actually walked into that courtroom. And yet…

She got abruptly to her feet, and stalked out of the office. Straight toward the corner of the lab where Serge Gnahoui's bones resided. I should re-examine the injuries, she told herself, especially the killing blow to the cranium. Both exterior and interior surfaces, to see if there's anything I missed.

**

A message from Booth waited for her when she returned to her office at midday.

"Hey, Bones. So, you got the news from Caroline, that the trial's been moved up? I'm just calling to— Look, I'm not trying to do that alpha male crap that I know you don't like. But…" He hesitated. "Hell, maybe I am. I just wanted to say… Should we both spend the weekend meditating or something, so we're calm and focused before taking the stand? Okay, I guess I better… I'll see you later, Bones. And…take care of yourself."

Brennan pressed the button to exit voicemail, wondering about Booth's parting words. She would surely see him tomorrow; it was not as if she were leaving for some dangerous foreign country. But perhaps she understood. It was the sentiment that mattered, not the words themselves.

When she called back, neither of them mentioned the trial. She simply told him that Hodgins should have the results of his particulate analyses first thing tomorrow.

**

Angela entered the women's bathroom and found Brennan standing at the mirror. But as soon as she'd rounded the corner, her friend jumped about a foot in the air, taking a startled gasp.

"Whoa, Bren, sorry."

"Ange—!" She had looked zoned out, staring down at the faucet. Now she was trying to get her breathing back to normal.

"I just have to pee, sweetie, is that all right?" But Angela's smile faded when she got a closer look at her friend's face.

"God, you went white. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." For a distraction, Brennan started digging through her purse resting on the counter.

Angela went into a stall, but kept talking so Bren wouldn't leave.

When she came back out, she decided she'd better ask. Running hot water over her hands, Angela said, "I noticed you're a little out of it today, Bren. Will you…? Please tell me what's going on."

Brennan sighed.

"Or do you want me to guess?" Angela moved to the dryer on the wall, and rubbed her hands under its rush of air. "I know you hate that, if I start going off the deep end with the things I come up with…"

The room seemed very quiet when the dryer shut off. Angela turned back, stepping close to her friend.

"Well," Brennan said, "It's… this case, for one thing, that we haven't solved. And then—this morning Caroline called, saying that Anders' trial is happening next week."

"Oh! I thought it was still a few weeks off."

"So did I."

"And…" Angela prodded carefully.

"And, I thought things were better, which they were. But—after we brought in that bookie—I've been seeing… reliving things that happened. In the suite. In varying degrees of…"

She didn't have to finish the sentence. Varying degrees of clarity, Angela thought. Of dreadfulness.

The artist didn't need to know the shape of every facial muscle, to see the tenseness in Brennan's. A hug would've been her first response, with a friend who was freaking out. But Angela didn't think she'd accept that right now.

"Well," she said, "we just have to be patient on that murder case for a while. And the other stuff…" Brennan met her eyes, pensive. "Don't worry, I won't try to be your shrink. And I won't go running to Sweets about it. I wanted to ask a favor, actually," Angela changed the subject. "I'm glad I found you in here. Were you going to karate tonight? Or to your gym for any reason? 'Cause I'd really like to go, as your guest. You know the locker rooms are way nicer than mine, and I've been eating out a little too much with Hodgins, so I could use a good run on the treadmill." Bren had slid her bag over her shoulder, and listened, slightly puzzled by the new topic.

"See, my gym, when I actually get there, there are a couple _really _annoying people, who, just because I chatted with them one time out of politeness, think they can talk my ear off whenever they see me, whereas all I want to do is plug in my iPod and zone out on the cardio machines." Angela paused for breath. "So, what do you say? I'll make you dinner after we work out. We can go to my place and watch some cheesy movie, or play one of those board games you somehow missed as a kid. Oh, but you'll have to stay over." Angela clutched enthusiastically at her friend's arm. "Because I finally broke down and bought an espresso machine, except it must not like me. It's kind of finicky, like it'll only work on special occasions. So if you stay over, maybe it'll be on its best behavior for tomorrow morning."

Brennan was shaking her head as if she didn't know what to respond to first. "Angela… That is a complete personification. My presence or absence will have no effect on the functioning of—"

"Come on Bren," Angela pouted. "I'm inviting my best friend over. Girls' night in. Will you come?"

Brennan thought that had been an awful lot of talking, even for Angela. But it had distracted her from her distress. And… had that been the point? If so, it reinforced her friend's sweet and considerate nature. Even if a social night merely put off the things she would have to face sooner or later… it was a welcome diversion.

"Yes," she told Angela. "I'll come. And… thank you."

**

Angela's apartment was so rich with art objects, Brennan thought she could spend hours simply walking around admiring it all.

The attractively framed photographs and paintings. The beaded necklaces hanging in the bedroom. The dyed or woven fabrics draped over furniture. And Angela could invariably tell a story behind each item. Brennan liked to ask, who made this one? And when, and how? Often, the tale would remind her of a cultural anecdote, and the two women could have an artistic/academic discussion.

After dinner, they lounged on the couch, making disparaging comments about a made-for-TV movie. "Ugh, that was nuts," Angela exclaimed as the credits rolled. "Now I need a nightcap." She went to the kitchen to pour two drinks. Brennan swallowed hers with good humor, enjoying the tingling warmth all the way down her throat.

They gave each other a kiss on the cheek before turning in.

Brennan settled into bed, smiling at the glow-in-the-dark stars spangling the ceiling of the guest room. She wondered if Angela knew she'd been having restless nights. I might not, she thought, sleep any better here. But… I feel loved.

**

Angela awoke to a faint sound. Her brain couldn't identify it, because she'd still been asleep. Holding herself motionless, she waited. There it was again. A sort of rustling, from the guest room.

Angela was wide awake now, not afraid so much as wary. Then—a muffled cry—that was definitely Bren. Angela threw back the blankets, grabbed a heavy vase from the table, and scurried down the hall. She paused at the door, then quickly shoved it open, flipping the light switch at the same time.

Brennan bolted upright in bed, gasping, and they both squinted at the brightness.

"Ange?" Bren panted. It was clear she'd only just woken up. "What's—?"

"Sweetie, I heard—are you okay? I thought you were being strangled by a burglar or something!"

"I'm—" she stuttered. "I don't…" Her cheeks were flushed, but her body shivered. Her white tank top blended into the bedding pooled around her waist, and it looked, to Angela's light-dazzled eyes, like she'd just clawed her way out of a snowdrift.

For a second, Bren glanced wildly around the room. "Is anyone—?" Then she focused on Angela. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" she said, bewildered. "Yeah."

Now she saw that Bren was crying—a fact she'd just realized herself. Her chest heaved, mouth trembling with relief or sorrow.

"Oh god," she said hoarsely, and covered her face with her hands.

"Sweetie…!" Angela hurried forward, remembering to set the vase down. She sat on the bed next to her friend, and reached out. Bren reached for her too, and they held tightly to each other's arms.

"Bren, it's okay! It was just a bad dream, right?"

Brennan's hands were cold, and her teeth chattered, like she couldn't shake the horror of it.

"I thought Anders was here," she said, rasping. "But it started in a courtroom. It was the trial—he came after me, and it just happened, no one could stop him. Everyone disappeared, and I was there in the witness box. It really was a box, I couldn't get out, even though I tried. But he could get in, and…" Bren rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. "It turned into your apartment, _here_… He was hurting me and he was going to hurt you next, and there was nothing I could do…" Her voice broke, and she gave in, crying in earnest. Angela could only pull her into a hug, making soothing sounds.

Brennan's hair, under her arm, felt sleek in some spots and tangled in others. Her skin smelled of herbs, spiked with a tang of fear.

It didn't take her too long to recover. Angela reached for a box of Kleenex on the bedside table, and offered it. As she blew her nose, she asked something Angela should have expected. Her voice still quavered, but she was back to the typical, rational Brennan.

"Do you have adequate security here? What kind of system is it downstairs, and for each apartment? I would hate to think of something happening to you."

"Sweetie…" Angela tapped her palm gently on Bren's cheek. "I feel the same way about you. But didn't you notice me punching all those numbers on that little box on the wall, after we came in? Hodgins has this friend he calls Tech Tom, and they got me a whole individual security thing for the apartment. I know it works, too, because I set it off a few times before I could figure it out."

Brennan looked somewhat reassured. She had crumpled up the tissue, and now smoothed stray strands of hair back from her face.

"So my bringing that vase as a weapon," Angela said, "was a complete over-reaction. No one can get in here. We are perfectly safe, Bren."

"I know. It's just…" She still had her shoulders hunched up around her ears. Without making eye contact, she said in a small voice, "I couldn't do anything. He just… overpowered me."

Angela didn't know if she referred to the dream, or reality.

Brennan shook herself, refocusing her eyes. "Well, I know a little of how you or Booth feel. The thought of something happening to you," she said fiercely, "my best friend, someone as…ebullient as you, being damaged by Anders…" Her jaw clenched. "It makes me understand when people say their blood boils with anger."

Angela gave a bittersweet smile. "Now I know you're gonna be okay, if you used a word like _ebullient_. But the blood boiling thing? Yeah. I get that a lot lately. Especially if something like _this _happens." Her voice softened. "Because, Bren, you're so strong, sometimes I forget that… But you don't have to be ashamed of those reactions. Not of _any_thing. Okay?"

She sniffed loudly, as though starting to cry again, and Angela gave her arm a squeeze.

"It's all right, now. We're both safe and secure. And the trial will be over before you know it. Then you won't ever have to see or think about that criminal again."

A few more tears had made their way down Brennan's cheeks. She tried to smile, to let Angela cheer her up, but it just wasn't happening.

"It was only a dream," Angela repeated. "You can forget about it, sweetie. It's all over."

Bren met her eyes then, looking weary, and much too wise for her years. "It doesn't feel over."

**

**A/N: **I borrowed the idea for "It's not over" from an ep of The Closer on TNT.

Hm, maybe you wanted this nightmare thing to happen with Booth instead of Angela. But it needed to be the girl bonding.

Okay, who thinks I should try to make this THE LONGEST FANFIC EVER? (Thanks to Laura Denvir for the suggestion.) I swear, I'm not trying to stretch it out, it just keeps happening!


	50. Chapter 50

**A/N: **Woo, I did it. I wasn't sure I'd be able to give you this whole section, or if I'd have to break it in half to continue working on the B/B part. But now you can enjoy the whole thing.

**Part 50**

After that, there was no way Angela was leaving her best friend. She turned out the light, then snuggled under the blankets next to Brennan. They were too tired to talk much. But Bren said one thing that made Angela's throat close up.

She was curled on her side, nearly asleep. "I'm lucky, Ange."

_Lucky_? she thought. With what's happened in your life?

"To have you," Bren sighed, "as a friend."

_Oh_. Angela started to say something equally touching, but Bren was already out. She lay perfectly still, breathing slowly. Like a child worn out from crying. I'm just glad she _can _sleep after that.

Angela stayed awake, watching her friend's silhouette in the darkness. She couldn't tell which emotion was strongest right now: the anger beating in her veins, or the ache in her heart. And possessiveness—the same as when she'd first found out what happened in that suite.

_My _friend. _My _Brennan. How dare those men touch her?

**

"You know," Angela said, watching the coffee machine for signs of insubordination, "you should really tell Booth, if you're nervous about catching the killer in this case."

"I'm not," Brennan protested. She took a plate of hot toaster waffles to the table. "Well... It's just the combination that's getting to me. We still have to crack this case, _and _deal with the trial. I feel like, I can't do both."

The two women sat down, Angela reaching for some peanut butter to top her waffles.

"You're partners," she chided. "He deserves to know. But he'll understand, Bren."

She didn't want to admit more weakness to Booth. "I will tell him. If it doesn't get any better." As long as I don't panic, she added to herself, and put us both in danger.

Angela looked doubtful, but Bren shook her head stubbornly. "He'll just worry more."

The coffee maker gave its distinctive gurgle to let them know it had finished. Angela went over to it, and cautiously filled the first mug. "Ha!" she crowed. "I knew it would behave itself if you were here. One perfect espresso, coming up. Maybe coffee can't cure all ills, but it can try."

**

Booth called to say he'd meet Bones at the lab to hear Hodgins' findings, but he'd be a little late. "Damn FBI," he grumbled before hanging up, "who schedules meetings on a Friday?"

Hodgins, surrounded by rows of test tubes and chemical composition graphs, gave Brennan the full report. (Booth would have been impatient with all that "squint speak," anyway.)

"So," he was saying, "the particulates from the head wound are the probably the most important ones. There was a lot of the usual stuff, gravel and soil particles, that could come from any number of places. _But _the interesting thing is this." He held up one of the charts. "I found traces of a unique chemical compound in both of the skull fractures."

Brennan narrowed her eyes at the readout. "Gasoline?"

"Yeah. Gasoline for motorcycles specifically. And this particular mix of chemicals is not your standard fuel. I did some checking, and this type is usually only used for a few particular brands of vintage motorcycles."

"I see," Brennan nodded. "What does that mean?"

"I have no idea. The victim was killed at some mechanic shop, where they fix up old motorcycles?"

"No," she said slowly. "Those chemicals were only present in the skull fractures, correct? Nowhere else on the body. So they must have been transferred there by the murder weapon."

"So it's the weapon that was sitting around some mechanic shop."

"That would be my inference. I don't think any of our suspects have connections to motorcycles… Maybe Booth will know."

Booth arrived not long after, waving a piece of paper. "News for you, Bones." He jogged up the steps to the lab platform.

"We have news for you too. Isn't that why we're here?"

"Yeah," he said, unperturbed. "Me first."

He came to stand next to Hodgins' research station. "We got a match on the upholstery fibers you found. It's a car registered to…" Booth pointed to a name on the paper.

Brennan leaned over to read it. "Linda Samson? Dave Samson's mother?"

"Yep. The victim's old lacrosse teammate. So, that either means Serge got a ride in that car shortly before his death, or someone in that family transported his body after he was killed."

"Or," Bones suggested, "Dave Samson murdered his teammate and then borrowed his mother's minivan to go dump the body?"

"Could be. Kinda twisted, but possible."

"Is that enough for a warrant? To search for blood or other evidence in the car?"

"That depends," Booth said, then pointed at the array of beakers and charts on the table. "What else have you got for me?"

She and Hodgins gave him a summary of the findings. When they mentioned the part about motorcycle fuel, Booth's face changed.

His gaze sharpened, then slid to the side. Brennan knew that look. Recalling, considering. Puzzle pieces falling into place.

"Bones." He met her eyes. "I know who did it."

**

It would have been typical, Hodgins thought, for the two of them to rush off at that moment, leaving everyone in suspense. But before they embarked on bringing one more bad guy to justice, Brennan made Booth explain his conclusion.

"Well," he began, and Hodgins could almost see the excitement vibrating through him. "When we went to interview Dave Samson's parents, before he got back from his trip…" He looked at Bones. "While you were doing your stealth reconnaissance, looking for prescription bottles in their cabinets, _I _was making small talk. And one thing I discovered? The father has a hobby of repairing _vintage motorcycles_."

Hodgins saw the understanding dawn on Dr. B's face.

"He keeps a couple in the garage," Booth said, "and he takes them to shows sometimes, one of which…" He frowned, remembering. "It's about two hours away, in Maryland. And to drive there, it's very likely he would take the exact road off which the victim's body was found."

Angela appeared, and came to stand next to Hodgins. Her face had that 'gossip and mystery!' expression that he loved. But she was probably drawn, he thought wryly, by the sound of Booth's voice.

Brennan was rapidly processing what she'd heard. "But what about the car?" She gestured at the printout Booth still held, that matched the fibers to Linda Samson's vehicle. "Couldn't the mother have done it?"

Booth was shaking his head. "I don't think she even knew about their betting habit. And Greg Samson owns a pickup, probably for transporting a motorcycle in the back. But he could have taken his wife's car if he had a body to dump. That's better for carrying around a cadaver, right? Rather than the open back of a truck?"

"So," Brennan mused, "that bookie wasn't the murderer… But the motive still had to do with gambling. Greg Samson killed Serge to…protect his son's reputation?"

"Yeah, but not just that, Bones." Booth had a sudden inspiration. "It's like you said: illegal activities as a way for guys to bond. The father and son were in on that part together—the online scams, the sports betting— And the time that Serge found out about it, that was right when Dave Samson had already been scouted by professional lacrosse teams. If that news came out, it would've ruined his career before it even started.

"And maybe…" Booth continued, "The father was an athlete too, in college, but he wasn't good enough to keep going with it. It could be one of those things where he tried to live vicariously through his kid's experiences. He didn't want either of them to get cheated out of it. So, he kills Serge to keep him quiet."

Brennan was shaking her head at that irrational way of thinking. But then something else occurred to her. "The father has schizophrenia; we know that from the medications I found. Sometimes… Those drugs can be notoriously hard to stay on, because of their side-effects. If Samson stopped taking them… It's possible he would be prone to violence and unstable behavior."

"Okay, Bones," Booth announced. "Between the two of us, we've got enough for a search warrant, for the car and a possible murder weapon." He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Get your coat. I'm calling a judge, and we'll pick up the document on the way."

Brennan headed to her office. When Hodgins glanced at Angela, he realized her interest had turned into something more worrisome. She was watching Booth speak to the judge, and made a few aborted hand gestures, like she wanted to get his attention. But then Brennan reappeared, and they were both too focused on catching the criminal to notice anything out of the ordinary. Hodgins thought Angela looked both anxious and sad. Once Booth and Brennan had strode purposefully out of the lab, he asked her about it.

"I didn't know if I should… well, warn Booth." She was still gazing at the exit, but now turned to him with a troubled expression.

"Because, Bren stayed at my place last night, and it was nice, until… She had this awful dream, and it freaked _me _out. I don't know if… She's nervous about this case, okay? Or maybe _I'm_ the most nervous. But they've gone charging off to catch another criminal, and…"

He took her hand. "They'll be fine, Angie."

"That's what I always tell myself. But… sometimes, they aren't."

**

They drove to the Samson residence. Bones kept an eye on the street signs, as she liked to do, making sure Booth took the best route.

Then she asked about the likelihood of finding the murder weapon.

"Well," he said, "some people commit a crime and feel remorse, so they try to get rid of everything. Like, if there's no sign of it, then it didn't happen. But other people respond by putting everything back in its exact place. All neat and cleaned up. No blood, no guilt."

"Do you think Greg Samson is the latter kind?"

"I don't know," Booth admitted. "I didn't get a very good read on him the first time. Maybe because… you said he was kind of a space cadet, from the medication."

"I'm sure I never used the words 'space cadet,' but I did suggest that his usual personality traits could be affected by the medication."

**

As their destination got closer, Booth realized that Bones was on edge. She did a good job of hiding it. But the fact that she _had _to hide it…

She would glance at him, then away before they could make eye contact. She kept plucking at the shoulder strap of her seatbelt like it was too restrictive, or too close to her neck.

He was debating whether to ask her about it, when she made the decision for him.

"Booth, stop the car."

He glanced at her sharply. She looked like she hadn't expected herself to say it, but now she was on this course of action, she might as well continue. "Please, take this exit and pull over."

She wasn't hyperventilating, or in other obvious distress. But he would definitely do what she asked.

Booth signaled a right turn off the highway, and coasted down the ramp. At the bottom of the hill was a stop sign guarding a bare intersection. A stretch of pavement led to a gas station on the right, and a highway underpass on the left.

Bones wasted no time in getting out. Booth shut off the engine and followed, ready to chase after her, like he had once before. But she didn't go far. Her feet took her across a strip of dead grass, then hesitated at the far edge of the gas station lot.

Their shoes crunched on the gravel-covered cement. Bones faced the cold breeze and folded her arms protectively.

Booth stood to one side, waiting. It would be pointless to ask, once again, if she was okay. Because she obviously wasn't okay.

Pacing back and forth, Brennan looked reluctant to tell him anything. But she could hardly avoid it, now.

When she came to a stop a few feet from him, he could almost see the thoughts chasing themselves around in her head. The one that finally came out was, "Do you have your second gun? Because I want it."

"Bones…?"

"He could become violent!" Her eyebrows arched and her eyes stretched wide with apprehension. "He did once before, and—"

For a second, Booth thought she meant Anders.

"He's probably not off his meds now, but schizophrenia—I hate to make generalizations, but with the unbalanced brain chemistry of that kind of illness, you never know what you're going to get!"

Only Bones, he thought, could say "unbalanced brain chemistry" while in a state of semi panic.

"Sorry," he said as gently as possible, "but if you're feeling jumpy right now, the last thing I should do is give you a gun."

"Ah!" she exhaled loudly. "Why do you have to be so… calm and rational?"

"_Me? I'm _being too rational?" Write this one down in the record books, Booth wanted to add, but she already looked prepared to hit him.

"I just mean—I'm not ready to—" She started over. "Aren't you worried about this? We were both worried, weren't we, just a day after catching Grever? So why are you fine now, and I'm not?"

He started to respond, but she kept right on going.

"Catching him, chasing him down the alley, it was supposed to get our confidence back, show us we can still do this. And it did, but…

"Now there's the trial, and I can't… I can't deal with more than one criminal at a time!"

"Bones—"

"We don't have Tony and Roxy to hide behind this time. What if I'm distracted, because of— What if something happens, and I can't guard your back? What if I'm just—scared?"

She sucked in her breath, as if trying and failing to regulate it.

God, she nearly _was _panicking. What should he do first? Hug her, reason with her, drive her straight back to the lab and lock her in?

He chose the first thing that felt right.

"Hey," he said, reaching for her shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. "Listen. It's okay. We've talked about this, you know it's normal to be anxious." But maybe not _this _anxious. Under his hand, her body quivered with energy.

She had looked away, ashamed of her vulnerability. But she reached up and gripped his arm, too.

"This case will be over today, Bones, and then you won't have to worry about it any more.

"But here's what I'm going to do." He kept his hand on her upper arm, reassuring. "I'm going to call another pair of agents to meet us there. Both the Samsons are at home; you know I called ahead saying we had some follow-up questions. So they won't expect anything out of the ordinary. But the other team can keep them occupied while we search the garage."

"Other team?" she said weakly. "But…"

"Did you forget, Bones?" he asked with mild humor. "This is standard procedure. No one will think anything of it. I mean, it's usually our discretion, if we want more agents or not. We have to, sometimes, like the high-profile ones—searching a senator's house for the Cleo Eller case. But… it doesn't have to be just us, Bones."

He watched her expression: a slight frown of unease, under the sunlight's glare. The wind kept blowing strands of hair across her face, and she kept trying to tuck them back.

"I guess…" Her voice sounded thick with swallowed tears, and he watched her take a steadying breath. "I did forget, about having another team."

"Yeah," he said softly. "We can have help. It's not just you and me against the world."

"Sometimes…" She looked away from him. "Sometimes it feels that way."

She had not told him that line of thinking was absurd. She had acknowledged its kernel of truth. _It's okay to have help. It's okay to depend on people. _

Booth gave Brennan's arm another squeeze, before they let go of each other.

Then he fished in his pocket for his phone, and arranged for some agents to meet them at the suspect's house.

Bones continued to pace up and down. When he went back over to her, she shoved her hands into her coat pockets and said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Don't be sorry. And…" He waited for a particularly loud car to roar past on the highway. "You don't have to worry about not being a hundred percent. Maybe I'm not either. Better than I was, but… I might have to do some serious anger management, during that trial next week."

Now he caught a trace of mischief in her expression. "Can we still go to your gym and beat up a punching bag together, like you said?"

Booth remembered one of their sessions with Sweets, when he had offered just that. "Absolutely."

One corner of her mouth turned up. "But…you really won't let me have a gun?"

"Nope. Sorry, Bones. Not today. You want to get trigger happy, you do it at the firing range."

She nodded as though that was the answer she'd expected.

Now Booth felt the levity vanishing, as he looked at her. The wind continued to play with her hair, and she was framed by the back of a highway sign, and some frail clouds in an expanse of blue sky.

"Do you feel safe with me?" he blurted. "I mean… I'm not trying to turn this around and make it all about me. But I need to know." He held her gaze. "Do you still feel safe with me?"

A simple yes or no was too much to hope for. But she gave it serious consideration.

"I suppose I have reason not to, after what happened with Anders. And, at the time… I couldn't believe I wouldn't _be _safe. Because we've always…" She met his eyes, uncertain how to complete the sentence. But he knew.

_Because we've always managed before. We've always gotten through. Together._

Then, she said what he'd hoped for.

"I always feel safe with you, Booth."

Her eyes looked clear and untroubled, but those lines forming between her brows were not a good sign.

"But?" he asked.

"But I don't…" Brennan hesitated, trying to find the words. "I don't feel safe… within myself." She still had her hands in her pockets, and her shoulders hunched up defensively. "That doesn't make sense. And yet, it seems accurate."

Booth wanted to tell her it was good to do what she was doing: listen to her feelings, even if they didn't make sense. And he remembered what she'd said after jumping out of the car: _I can't deal with more than one criminal at the same time._

Maybe, he thought, wanting to hold her as tightly as he'd ever held her, it was because she _did _have to deal with two against one, when they dragged her behind that locked door.

And she was right to guess that he, too, had been affected by the alley chase, and the dread of Anders' trial. But right now, Booth didn't want her feeling inadequate, or self-conscious about her response.

"We don't have to compare how we're dealing with this, Bones. Because… It wasn't the same for me, in that suite." His voice sounded choked. "I can't imagine what… Or how much worse… Look, you get some leeway, okay?"

She looked like she wanted to argue, not with him, but with the idea. _Why can't I get over it, through sheer force of will?_

"I'll be honest," he went on, "part of me really wants to lock you in the lab right now and never let you out. And maybe you want to lock me safe in my office. But…"

"Crimes don't get solved that way," she said quietly.

As though taking a cue, they headed back to the car.

"We're not going to be late, now, are we?" Brennan asked. "The other agents might beat us there."

"Nah," Booth said. "I told them we stopped for gas, so they won't rush over."

As she opened the side door of the truck, he couldn't help touching her again: a brief pat to the back. "You sure you're okay with this? You wouldn't have to…"

"Booth, I am not waiting in the car. None of the other agents have extensive training in forensics. There could be blood or other DNA to test for, and strict procedures must be maintained, to avoid contamination, or to collect what could be very small samples."

Bones hadn't really answered his question. But what she said still told him, 'I'll be fine.'

**

**A/N: **I gave Bren a line that Booth had in Killer in the Concrete. Anyone catch it?

I kept meaning to do some research about the chemical composition of gasoline, and whether there are in fact differences between cars and (vintage) motorcycles… but I never got around to it. So if I'm totally wrong, well, call it poetic license. Aside from that, I've never written a mystery before. (Next chapter will give more of the details.) How'd I do?


	51. Chapter 51

**A/N: **Remember last chapter, I had Bren say a line that Booth did, in Killer in the Concrete. "I will, if it doesn't get any better." He meant, see a dentist if his tooth didn't stop hurting. She meant, tell Booth if her anxiety didn't get any better. Who aced my quiz? :)

**Part 51**

From there, everything went smoothly. They rendezvoused with the other agents down the street from the Samson house. Bones carried her evidence-collection kit, and went with Booth straight to the garage, while the other team flashed the search warrant and herded the Samsons away from that end of the house.

Booth surveyed the two-car garage. The father's pickup was parked outside, while the mother's minivan took up half the space. Two motorcycles occupied the other half, along with bikes hanging on the wall, some bins of old sports equipment, and assorted tool boxes.

Bones walked slowly around, keen eyes scanning for information. Booth knew she wouldn't touch anything or look in more detail until she'd taken this first inventory. When they'd entered, he had pulled the cord of a suspended light bulb, and now he hit the button to open the garage door, letting in natural light. By the time the door completed its grinding upward journey, Bones had crouched down on the floor to swab an oil stain. "We can compare this to the chemicals Hodgins found on the victim," she said. "Want to help me search inside the minivan?"

They started with the front, each opening a side door. Then Brennan went around to open the back hatch, and scrutinized the floor and walls. The rear seats had been folded into the floor, leaving a bare space that Booth judged to be the perfect size for transporting things like lacrosse gear…or a dead body.

Bones had put on yellow-tinted glasses, and was shining a light around the car's interior. Catching sight of something, she cautiously put one knee on the upholstery, and crawled in. Booth looked over her shoulder, and when she pulled back the floor mats on the left side, he could see faint spots marring the floor underneath.

"Is that…?"

"Blood."

She let the mats fall back, and got out of the van. "There could be other evidence we're not seeing, but this is enough to get the car towed, so Hodgins or the FBI techs can go over it in detail."

"Okay, Bones. I'll arrange it…"

Booth watched her continue her patrol of the garage, and to keep from getting bored, wandered around himself. In one corner sat the bin of dusty sports equipment, probably left over from when Dave Samson had been a kid: baseball gloves, footballs, badminton racquets. And a baseball bat, propped against the wall.

"Bones? What did you say the murder weapon was shaped like?"

"Cylindrical, like a…" She glanced at him, and he nodded at the bat. Walking right over, she grasped it in her gloved hand and held it up, examining the surface. He couldn't see anything suspicious about it, but Bones took out a bottle of luminol and spritzed it over one side. She waited, then rotated the bat and sprayed the other side.

There. Telltale smears and spatters.

"Looks like we found the murder weapon," Booth said. "You have an evidence bag big enough for that?"

**

Bones was quiet on the drive back, but Booth filled the silence by ruminating on the case.

"We'll probably charge Greg Samson with murder, but of course we'll do a thorough interrogation. And I made sure the team is bringing his wife in for questioning, too. I doubt she knows about either the gambling or the murder, but she could still have valuable information."

Booth checked his side mirrors, then suggested, "Maybe Sweets will get assigned as the shrink on this case. You know, to see if the guy was mentally competent, or whether it was a spur-of-the-moment crime, rather than premeditated.

"What do you think, Bones?" He glanced over, trying to coax her into conversation. "Could Samson get off, because of his mental illness?"

"That depends," she said absently, "on a variety of factors. We only just arrested him; it's too soon to say. There's still a lot of lab work before we confirm this evidence."

Booth nodded, deciding to let the silence reign for a few miles.

They had passed a strip mall and several gas stations, when Bones finally spoke again.

"Booth, about earlier... My anxiety was out of proportion to the situation. I don't know why… It was irrational. I'm sorry."

"No," he said, "don't apologize. You did exactly the right thing. You _told _me when something didn't feel right. You didn't try to brush it off or keep it quiet. Because—it wasn't dangerous today, but if it had been—we should never go into a situation without telling each other, if our head's not in the game."

He took his eyes off the road, to make sure she understood. Her expression was somewhat heartened; and he had something else he wanted her to know.

Booth braked to a halt at a red light, grateful for the chance to look at her for longer than a glance.

"You listened to your instincts, okay? You trusted them, and you trusted me enough to tell me. Bones, that… That's everything I could ask for."

**

Brennan opted not to take part in the interrogation. Instead, Booth drove her back to the lab, accepting her reasons for wanting to help (or, knowing her, supervise) the next stage of forensic analysis. But they agreed to meet later, to share additional news, and start on the paperwork.

It was dark when Booth made his way back to squint headquarters. Another weekend, he thought, spent working. Inside the sterile Jeffersonian lab. But—hell, what did it matter? He would rather do paperwork with Bones, than have a typical Friday night with someone else.

He carried the bags of Chinese food up to the lounge, where Brennan already sat at the table flipping through her notes about the victim's injuries.

"I've got food," he singsonged.

"I know, I can smell it. Mm…" She reached for one of the bags as soon as he set it down.

Pulling out one of the containers, she asked, "Did you have time to go to the gym, like you wanted?"

Brennan had taken note of Booth's attire: he was now wearing jeans and a black t-shirt printed with some logo she didn't understand.

"Yeah," he said. "Just came from there."

"How was it?"

"You know." Booth shrugged. "Busy. Even though I got there just before the after-work rush. There are these two guys who are always hogging the equipment, like the bench press or squat rack. Looks like they're doing a good workout program, but they fail to realize they can't be monopolizing stuff during peak hours."

"Hm." Brennan made a sympathetic noise. "Maybe I should've gone too. Angela and I just went for a walk instead, before it got too dark."

By now they had opened all the takeout containers and chosen their favorite things. Through mouthfuls of food, they told each other about the day's findings.

Brennan began by confirming that the car upholstery was a match to the fibers found on the body. "Cam says the blood samples were too degraded to be able to match definitively to our victim. But Hodgins can verify that the gasoline on the garage floor was the same as from the skull fracture. It transferred, like we thought, from the floor where the baseball bat was resting, and then to the head wound."

"So, we were right," Booth said. "Greg Samson did it. Only problem is, he claims not to remember much about the event. Apparently he went to talk to Serge one night, when he was alone on the practice field. Maybe he only meant to convince him not to rat out his teammate, but…he just snapped."

"He _was _off his medication?"

"Yep. That's where the wife was more helpful, to pin down the timeframe. But the family hadn't realized he'd stopped taking his meds yet, or they probably wouldn't have left him alone long enough."

"Did he bring the baseball bat along?" Bones asked. "Because that sounds like premeditation."

Booth popped a wad of sticky rice into his mouth. "They say it was only by chance. His car was in the shop, so he took his wife's. The bat and some other equipment just happened to be stowed in the back, from some picnic they'd gone to, where the little kids needed sports activities to keep them busy."

Brennan shook her head at the convolutions of the case. Booth watched her sift her fork through the egg fried rice, to pick out the onions. "What?" she said. "They always put in way too many."

Booth chuckled, and went back to devouring the sweet and sour chicken.

"I wonder," Bones said after a minute, "what was going on in his mind. Maybe I don't want to know."

"Who, the cook who puts in too many onions?"

"No, the—" Her face got that pinchy look. Booth loved how he could momentarily sidetrack her with unexpected statements. "Greg Samson. The murderer."

"What, like, the voices in his head suddenly told him to kill Serge?"

"I don't know. But it's sad, really. In a skewed way, he thought he was protecting his son. And there's still so much we don't know about the brain. Who's to say what combination of chemical neurotransmitters, drug inhibitors, and emotional impulses are really behind people's actions?"

"You make it sound like you think he's not guilty."

"No, I do. It just makes me wonder."

**

A couple hours later, they had cleaned up the takeout containers and made their way through a good chunk of paperwork. Booth yawned and leaned far back in his chair. Brennan stood up to stretch, then reached for new bottle of water from the other end of the table.

"It seems extra dry in here today," she commented. Booth watched her lips and throat as she swallowed gulps of water.

"Yeah," he said. "And what a day, huh? You tell me I'm being too rational, and I tell you that you're following your gut."

She gave a lopsided smile. "That's—what do they say? We're rubbing off on each other."

"Yeah, Bones. In a good way."

They wandered around the lounge area before completing the last of the forms. Booth ended up leaning on the railing overlooking the main lab, and Bones came to stand next to him. She rested her arms cautiously on the surface, still aware of her injured elbow from that tumble in the alley.

Booth glanced at the bare skin revealed by an attractive short-sleeved blouse, then nodded at the band-aid covering her elbow. "How's that healing up?"

"Very well. You can hardly tell there was gash there. Still raw, but nearly all closed up."

Together they gazed out at the high-ceilinged room. Over the leafy plants at the edge of the lounge, to the network of beams above the silver symmetry of lab tables and equipment cabinets. Light reflected off ceiling fixtures in vibrant white-gold coils. The footsteps of an occasional late-working intern echoed up from the floor below.

They both start talking at once.

"Do you think—"

"Did you—"

They exchanged wry smiles, and Booth motioned for Bones to go first.

"Do you think… Maybe I should stop doing fieldwork for a while."

He could tell she didn't like her own suggestion, and asked softly, "Why?"

"Well, I don't want a repeat performance of today. That kind of anxiety…" Her voice rose with impatience and she stood up straight, hands gripping the railing. "Just when I think things are back to normal, something else happens. Like Anders' trial. Or a maintenance man in my office. Or these dreams that won't... But we can't keep requesting backup every time we confront a suspect." She met his eyes again. "The Bureau will get suspicious, and have me confined to the lab, or have both of us evaluated by a psychologist."

Booth sighed. "Not going out in the field… It's funny you should say that, Bones. Because I was going to ask you if you got Sweets' email."

"No, I haven't checked."

"He, um… he suggested the same thing. I mean, that neither of us be given any important cases during Anders' trial. That we not work together, just until it's over. To—whatever his shrink wording was—not put undue stress on us during an already stressful time."

"But," Brennan protested, "we'll hardly need to be involved in the trial. Just testify once, and that should be it."

"I know, Bones."

"But…" she said again. "What do you think? You're not upset about this?"

Booth grunted. "Something tells me Cullen is behind it. I don't think there are any specific protocols about partners working or not working, if they're trial witnesses… So the boss is either paranoid that something else is going to happen with us, or he just doesn't want to jeopardize our good solve rate.

"But…" Booth predicted where Brennan's main concern lay. "This idea from Sweets isn't just directed at you. It's _both _of us, okay?

"And, as for what I think… For once, the kid might have the right idea. I mean, that trial…" His face darkened. "I'm going to have to sit in that courtroom wearing a nice tie, and staring at Anders, also wearing a nice tie, and have to tell how he humiliated us? I'd rather not come back from that and have to worry about tracking down more murderous bastards."

It was Brennan's turn to sigh. "I see your point."

"And, Bones…" Booth watched an intern below them, walking the aisle between lab tables. "You wouldn't have to come right back into the field, after the trial. I mean, you feel comfortable in the lab, right? You could always just stay here for a while. We'll still work together, you just wouldn't need to come along for every…"

She didn't know what to think about his proposal, but he could see distrust and suspicion creeping over her face. In fact, if Bones' expressions had been like those of other women, he would've said she looked afraid he was going to dump her.

Booth took his arms off the railing and straightened up. "It's not because I want to stop working with you," he said quickly. "Far from it. It's just…we're worried, right, about keeping the other person safe? This way, we'd be taking a break for a while."

Bones pondered it. "Even after the trial, I wouldn't go out with you, in the field? For how long? And who would watch your back?"

"There's a couple guys at the Bureau I'd trust. _Not _as a new partner. Just to have around in case of emergency. And…"

He answered her other question. "For however long you need."

She frowned, unconvinced.

"It's just an option, that's all. Just an idea. The trial will take maybe two weeks, and then we'll see. We don't have to go straight out again confronting murderers… if we're not ready."

"You mean, if I'm not ready."

Booth found an excuse to look away, trying to see what that intern was doing in one of the side rooms. Tonight's lab smells were stronger than usual: a touch of caustic chemicals mingled with the shiny cleanness, spiced by savory remnants of their takeout food.

"Listen, Bones… You don't need to hold yourself to the same high standard all the time.

"It's like weight lifting in the gym," Booth declared. "Every time you go up in weight—especially on hard ones like bench or squats—it's really tough, but it makes you feel like you can do anything. So then the next time, you think you have to reach that same level, or you're slacking off somehow. But that's not true. I mean, I went to workout today, right? I couldn't handle the same weight I did last time. Maybe I didn't get enough sleep, or eat enough protein, or for whatever reason—I just wasn't up to it."

Booth leaned a little closer to her. "And that's okay, Bones. You can still get a good workout with a lighter weight. You just have to listen to yourself… like you did today."

She nodded, and let her eyes sweep back over the lab's neat geometry.

"Well," she said, "it was my idea in the first place, wasn't it? Full participation in the field."

"Yeah," Booth agreed, his mouth turning up. "You blackmailed me into it.

"The point is…" he sobered again. "It's completely your choice. Maybe taking a break and staying in the lab for a while... It's not Cullen or Sweets imposing something on us."

"My choice," Brennan echoed. Then her voice turned slightly bitter. "Not some man exercising power over me.

"But…" She sounded thoughtful now, leaning her hip against the railing to face Booth. "I don't think I'll need it. An extra break, I mean. Because everything went fine today: getting Samson and searching for evidence. I feel a little silly, being so worried. It was just…the thought of Anders' trial so soon, and this uncertainty about another suspect. It was nice to focus solely on collecting data and not having to arrest someone…but we could have done it alone." Brennan looked to her partner for confirmation. "Like we did Monday, catching Grever. He could have been dangerous—but we did great as Tony and Roxy."

Booth's nod, and the glint in his eye, encouraged her. "We did. 'Cause I have faith in you, Bones. In _us_. We've had a lot of hard stuff to deal with. But we can do it."

Her eyes glimmered, and she pressed her lips together before she looked away.

"I just…" Booth touched her arm. "I want you to feel comfortable before we go out again. Not because I don't trust you. And not that tracking down murderers is supposed to be relaxing. But because… I want you to be happy, and safe. Safe within yourself."

Brennan recognized her own words from earlier that day. When he took his hand away from her skin, she reached out, partly to break the emotion growing taut between them. Brushing the sleeve of Booth's t-shirt, she traced the lettering over his chest. "What does this mean?"

He looked down at the logo. "It's a band, Bones. You never heard of them? It's good music. You'll have to come over sometime and listen.

"Well," he groaned, "I guess we should wrap up this paperwork so we can home."

But she was still studying him. "Booth, do you take your own advice?"

"What?"

"What you said, about holding yourself to standards that are too high. Didn't we have this conversation, when you came to my apartment that night…?"

She trailed off, and he realized what she meant. _Yeah. The night I sat on your couch and cried into your sweater. _

"I don't want…" Bones started. "You feeling guilty about what happened, it's not… It's not _fair_."

"Maybe it's not, but…" Right now, Booth couldn't be amused at her childish statement. He rested his hands back on the railing and leaned hard against it, feeling his triceps contract. "I was thinking, today—we called for backup on a simple investigation of evidence. So why," his voice grated, "back at that hotel, why the fuck didn't I call when it counted, when we were up against two—make that _three _criminals?"

The muscles in his arms knotted, and he stared feverishly out across the silver ceiling fixtures.

Bones could have said, _you didn't know. It wasn't your fault._

But instead she put her hand on his arm, just where the bicep met the inside of his elbow. Without speaking, she pressed her fingers firmly. Booth felt it against his muscles like a massage. Persuading them to release their tension. And slowly, they did.

He hung his head, exhaling the air from his lungs. Then he straightened up, and as Bones dropped her hand, he stepped close and gathered her to him in a rough hug.

She made a surprised sound, against the collar of his shirt. But her arms went around him too, and held fast.

Her face tucked against his neck as he pulled her close. He smelled of soap and aftershave and hot skin. A trace of salty sweat, that the shower hadn't washed away.

Booth had one arm across her shoulders, the other touching the lower part of her back, where it curved into the dip of her waist.

"Safe, Bones," he murmured against her hair. "We're okay, together. We're safe."

It was so quiet, she wasn't sure she'd heard it. Then he pressed a swift kiss on her head, just at the hairline above her eyebrow. The evening stubble on his chin scraped her skin.

Brennan felt tears come to her eyes at the unexpected gesture. But the next second Booth let her go, giving her a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

"Okay, paperwork, huh?" He headed back toward the table, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated zeal.

Brennan followed more slowly. When they sat down again, collecting the last of their notes, Booth avoided her eyes. She wanted to ask him questions. But she didn't know entirely what they were, nor if she was ready for the answers.

**

**A/N: **Wow, I don't know what came over them in that scene. I had some ideas for things they could say…but I didn't know it would turn out with extra angst and comfort.

Is it me, or is Booth getting some pretty good lines in this fic? Any favorites?

Okay, I didn't split this into shorter sections, so that means I have a lot less prepared for next week. But I'll try to stick to my dependable update schedule.


	52. Chapter 52

**A/N:** I wasn't sure when this part would happen. I first thought it would be back with the chapter when Brennan drew the radius and ulna, but that would've made it too long. Then I thought it would come after Anders' trial… But I wanted to write it now. To take a break from both case stuff and character interaction, with quiet reflections in the form of an anatomy lesson.

**Part 52**

That weekend, Booth invited her to have lunch at the diner with him and Parker. They had an ulterior motive, he confessed. Parker's upcoming science project would benefit from her expert input. So they talked, between slurps of milkshakes, about homemade volcanoes and dinosaur dioramas. At one point, Booth made several odd facial expressions over Parker's head, that she had to ask him about when the boy went to wash his hands.

"I was trying to steer him away from the volcano thing," Booth explained. "Yeah, it's pretty cool, but…that's just a little more chemistry and potential explosions than I and my apartment are prepared to handle at the moment." He grinned.

So, Brennan suggested a homemade archeological dig. "You can bury actual bones," she told Parker, "maybe chicken bones, or replica plastic ones from any number of creatures. Take a small container and fill it, either with dirt and gravel, or a soft clay matrix you can mix up. Then you or your classmates dig it up again, making sure to draw a schematic of the dirt layers or strata, marking where each item was found in relation to the others."

Parker jumped in with questions, and she pointed him toward informational books and websites, as well as a few Jeffersonian colleagues. "I'm sure they would be happy to offer advice," she said. "The museum actually sells kits like this for children, but it would be more fun to make your own."

All three left the diner in good spirits. Parker was chattering about what he would bury and dig up; Booth was glad it would involve simple dirt rather than chemicals, and Brennan was pleased to have helped both of them.

**

Sunday afternoon at her apartment, Brennan sat down to work on her novel. This time she sketched out ideas for interpersonal interactions that might arise from some of the plot events. (She would be lying to herself to claim that recent emotional scenes with Booth had no effect on this choice of writing topic.)

After working steadily for a time, she got up to make a cup of tea. Returning to the desk, she noticed a forgotten piece of paper, under some others in the drawer. She took it out an looked at it.

It was her drawing of the radius and ulna. The arm bones she'd begun sketching on a whim, the drawing that had turned into—well, another struggle with what had happened in the suite. Its imprint on her life and memory. On her nerves, and even her bones, if you considered the healed rib fractures.

Brennan stared at the drawing's meticulous lines, its finely labeled bone structures. There was the overly heavy membrane between the ulna and radius: trapping, and almost concealing, the names _Anders _and _Rawling_. Here were the faint smudges halfway down each bone, where she had written and erased those names.

This forearm, she thought, was too isolated. True, she often looked at bones in isolation, but she preferred to consider the whole skeleton. The whole person.

Without hesitation, Brennan took that same anatomy book from her shelf. She opened it to the page depicting the ulna and radius. Then, the next page: the bones of the wrist. They would be the logical thing to draw next.

Selecting a sharp pencil, she took another piece of paper from the stack. There wasn't enough room to add to the existing drawing, but she could attach another sheet to lengthen the page.

Following the textbook, and connecting to her previous sketches, Brennan began to draw. One view for the back of the hand, and one view for the palm.

Carpal bones were tricky, at least compared to the straight, simple long bones. Their eight small shapes in precise formation, comprising the mobile joint between the metacarpals and the forearm.

Brennan leaned over her desk in concentration. She sketched carefully, making sure the edges of one bone matched the edges of the next. Just barely touching, like tiles in a mosaic: irregular shapes that nonetheless fit perfectly together.

Starting at the radius, or thumb side of the hand, she recited the mnemonic device in her mind. Proximal row, next to the forearm: _Some lovers try positions_… Distal row: _That they can't handle_. Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform. Trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate.

She was drawing them relatively small, to be in proportion to the arm; and at this size, many of the bones looked like squashed rectangles or rounded geometrics. Not the exquisite detail she knew was there, and would be showcased by professional sketches: each bone in all its shaded, ridged, convex-or-concave glory.

Brennan traced the scaphoid's curving bean shape. It was supposed to resemble a boat, although she had never really seen the comparison. Its name came from the Greek _skaphe_, for boat, and _eidos_, for form.

Next to it, she drew the capitate's strong lines, like a keystone in Roman architecture.

The hamate, a squat cowboy boot, whose 'toe' was a hook-like process projecting from the underside.

The trapezium, that formed a saddle joint with the first metacarpal, or thumb.

The tiny pea-shaped pisiform.

Brennan could almost picture, as she drew, the complex web of ligaments and muscles. In a real body (depending on the levels of dissection or decay), only some of the wrist bones would be visible, like pebbles stuck in a dense spider web.

Once she was satisfied with the overall shapes, she penciled in the five bones of the hand, where they articulated with the distal row of wrist bones.

But her eye kept getting distracted by her first drawing. Specifically, by _Anders _and _Rawling_. Their names caught her peripheral vision, even ensnared as they were by the interosseous membrane.

This week, she thought, is the trial. I am going to sit in a courtroom, look Anders in the face, and tell everyone what he did to me. To us.

But why should the criminals be the only ones to mark these bones?

Brennan wanted to get rid of them, or at least balance them out somehow.

She erased a stray pencil mark, and thought, if I were a wrist bone, which one would I be?

She had no idea where that had come from. It sounded like something Angela would say.

Angela. Her beautiful friend would be the lunate. The crescent-shaped wrist bone named for the Latin _luna_. The moon, and female power, and a charming, mercurial nature. The one with wide articular facets for many nearby bones; the way Angela could connect effortlessly to everyone around her.

Booth, Brennan decided, would be the capitate. The largest of the carpal bones. The center.

And I would be…the scaphoid, perhaps. The largest in the proximal row. A bone of contradictions: difficult to break, yet slow to heal. One had to be cautious with scaphoid fractures: some injuries did not heal properly and caused complications down the road. (This was because a break across the center of the bone could cut off blood flow to the proximal half.)

The scaphoid—also known as the navicular, in older anatomy literature—one side formed a crescent curve, to articulate with the lunate. My connection to Angela, Brennan mused. Her significant (and usually welcome) effects on me.

The scaphoid's other facet formed a concave surface to join the capitate. Within the rules of her metaphor, this represented Booth's influence on her.

Brennan glanced at a passage in the open textbook on her desk, and almost laughed. If I'm assigning Booth's name to the capitate, mine to the scaphoid and Angela's to the lunate…my mind must be in the gutter: _The capitate presents a rounded portion or head, which is received into the concavity formed by the scaphoid and lunate bones_.

In more crass language, both Angela and I want to have sex with Booth. At least, that's what Angela would say.

Brennan knew that sexual imagery was not uncommon in anatomy, with scholars assigning 'male' to convex structures, where they met concave 'female' ones. But these were practical comparisons; they had never amused her before.

She shrugged, and kept going with this reflective, whimsical game.

Cam would be the hamate. Because of the partial rhyme, but also because the hamate had a hook, where muscles attached that moved the little finger. Metaphorically, Cam had a hook, too. That sharp side she directed to outsiders, standing up for her lab team, or sometimes directed at the team itself, to regulate and keep them in line.

The hamate, Brennan knew, shared a side with the capitate. In keeping with her comparison, Cam and Booth had a past relationship…and were connected, now, as friends.

She moved down the row of bones, looking at the small but significant trapezoid and trapezium. They would be Zack and Hodgins. These two bones were also called the greater and lesser multangular, and Brennan smiled to think of the pair as an older and younger brother. Smart young scientists who joked and argued like siblings.

Zack, akin to the trapezoid—at first glance nondescript. Sandwiched between larger, flashier components. But vital, with appealing angles.

Hodgins, then, was the trapezium. The bone that joined the thumb in a multi-purpose saddle joint. Opposable thumbs, allowing human hands to do a huge variety of tasks. Just as Hodgins' variety of laboratory tasks allowed them, Brennan and Booth, to grasp evidence. Hodgins served as a 'finger' out into the world, the way he manipulated and interpreted particulates.

Brennan pushed back in her chair, still studying her drawing. It seemed meaningful which row of bones she had assigned people to: whether they articulated directly with a metacarpal, thus having a hand out into the world, or whether they stayed in the lab, snug within the team.

Of course, so many of the carpals anchored muscles that moved the fingers. They functioned as a team, and not in isolation the way she, and anatomy books, had drawn them.

Whether or not I take a break, she thought, after Anders' trial, our brand of teamwork is effective and unique. Not just me and Booth, but all of us. Angela and Cam and our squints…we're the arm of the Jeffersonian. The science. We support and complement Booth's investigation, to be the hand of justice in the world.

What, then, of the criminals trapped in the membrane between the arm bones? Well…they had been neutralized by the justice system.

These comparisons were imperfect, Brennan knew. Perhaps even clichés. But somehow they appealed to her.

Hoping she wasn't getting carried away, she wrote _science _in large letters, in the space right next to the arm bones. Then, along the bones of the hand, she wrote _justice_.

The carpal bones, she and Booth and their team, were the connection between the two.

_Squints don't solve murders_, Booth's voice mocked in her memory. _Cops do_. Since their first cases together, she knew he had modified his stance. As she had modified hers. (She no longer hated the term squints, for example.)

In the sake of fairness, Brennan penciled _investigation _near _science_, by the distal end of the radius.

As she labeled the wrist bones with her people's names, she realized there were two left over. The triquetrum and pisiform had not found matches in the human world, and Brennan wanted to keep the neatness of her metaphor. Who should they be?

The most important people were accounted for, at least in her professional life. She briefly considered her father and Russ. Or even Parker. But they had no place in crime solving. No, perhaps…the victim Miranda Charles. And her mother Liana: others who'd been marked by criminals. Brennan could include them as a sort of honor. It was that disappearance and murder that had started this whole sequence of events. She did not mean to exclude Miranda's father, but it had been the mother she had talked to. Bonded with, over cups of tea.

Besides… She considered the shapes of the remaining wrist bones, on the outside of the hand. The small round pisiform budding off the triquetrum. A daughter cell, blooming from the parent one.

It was another inexact comparison, but Brennan found it satisfying. She penciled the names in their appropriate spots. Triquetrum and pisiform. Liana and Miranda.

The young woman was dead, but, as her mother asserted, still linked to the people who loved and remembered her.

Brennan got up from her desk and stretched. The light outside had faded and it was time to think about dinner. She put her drawings carefully back in her drawer.

It made no logical sense, but she felt a little better about the upcoming trial, and about her work, whether in or out of the lab.

My squints and my research, partnered with Booth, become the hand of justice, to make the world safer.

Would Angela, she wondered, call this art therapy? I imagine she'd approve. Because I was thinking about relationships. Anatomical ones, and human ones.

**

**A/N: **I wanted to reference Brennan's wrist injury from New Orleans, but she didn't actually remember the event, and all they said on the episode (Man in the Morgue) was, it was _not _a Colles' fracture, from a fall. So what was it? There aren't many choices, other than a scaphoid fracture. Maybe the writers were fudging it for the sake of the story? I'll ask my anatomy professor dad and get back to you.

Now, I didn't have as much time to go over this section as I usually take. Did I pull it off, or am I nuts?

**Sources**

--Frederic Martini and Michael Timmons' _Human Anatomy _4th edition

--Wikipedia (look up 'scaphoid' or 'carpal bones')

--_Gray's Anatomy _by way of Bartleby's great books online, www dot bartleby dot com/107/pages/page223 dot html


	53. Chapter 53

**A/N: **This is a little later and shorter than I would have liked. What happened this week? Well, I had to work evening shifts, my fridge was empty, the bus was late and it snowed. Damn RL.

Now class, who remembers the wrist bone anatomy we learned last session? I couldn't recall what Brennan's injury was supposed to be, so I rechecked Man in the Morgue. It was, in fact, a Colles' fracture to the distal radius (you can actually see it on the shot of her x-ray in the café scene). But she said it showed surface trauma to the bone, so it wasn't from falling and catching herself, but was either defensive, or from an assailant slamming her wrist into something. Okay, ouch. Sounds like believable techno babble to me. Now onto the chapter.

**Part 53**

The week of Anders' trial was a tense one for Booth and Brennan. They did not work together, which turned out to be a good thing. The trial occupied both their minds more than they liked to admit, even though their role in it was limited to one morning of testimony at the end of the week.

Their work consisted of unchallenging individual tasks. For Brennan, examining Limbo skeletons and identifying soldiers. For Booth, running background checks and assisting others on their cases.

Before the scheduled meeting with Caroline, Brennan sat on a stool by the exam table, turning a humerus in her hands. She stared at the trochlea and capitulum without really seeing them. At this moment, she thought, Anders would be escorted into the courtroom. After opening statements, Caroline would present evidence of Miranda's murder. Showing slides of her cranium with its two injuries, the entrance and exit wounds. Brennan could still see them as clearly as the bone in her hands.

******

As promised, Caroline met with the partners to prepare their testimonies. First together, to give general advice, and then separately. They sat in the same FBI conference room where, a week ago, she'd briefed them on the charges brought against Anders.

"We'll probably go over this with your individual statements," Caroline said, "but bottom line: don't be too reined in." She looked at the two handsome people sitting across from her, their somber expressions evenly matched.

"You're both all strong, brave," Caroline waved her hand, "in-control kinds of people. But the jury doesn't need to see a pair of stoics up there. They need to see some people who went through something awful at the hands of the defendant. No," she glanced at Brennan to forestall objection, "I'm not asking you to break down weeping on the stand. But we want the jury to have sympathy for you. You're not an expert witness whose feelings don't matter here. So don't file them away in whatever container you usually put them in. I'm guessing it's going to be tough to tell what happened. So, you can let it be tough."

They gave each other an uneasy look, and nodded.

Brennan was wearing a gray-blue blouse under a red-brown jacket, that accentuated her hair and eye color. Booth, Caroline thought, had forgotten to shave this morning, but still looked scrumptious in his coat and tie.

She got herself back on track. "I've been up against this defense lawyer before," she said. "In this type of case, I think he'll prefer casting doubt on the evidence, rather than on witnesses. Besides, it would be pretty hard to cast aspersions on you two, as well-respected as you are. I mean, a forensic anthropologist and federal agent…"

"Doubt about _what _evidence?" Brennan cut in. "How can he misinterpret—"

"Now, now, cherie, we've got it covered. You let me worry about that.

"Before we split up for your individual testimonies… one more thing." She looked at Brennan. "On the day of the trial, wear something pink. Professional of course, but it's a color that says _feminine _and just slightly vulnerable."

"_Vulnerable_?" She turned to Booth. "Is she serious?"

"Bones," he said, "just—"

"Are you going to make Booth wear something pink, too? Because we were both vulnerable."

"All I'm saying—" Caroline started.

"Are you a jury consultant now?" Brennan demanded. "Like the one who told me to wear blue because it's somehow trustworthy, and that she wanted the men on the jury to be undressing me with their eyes?"

_Her _eyes were blazing, and Caroline winced. "Well, that was an unfortunate choice of words for that person use." And for Brennan to bring up now, she added to herself.

Booth turned to his partner with a confidential tone. "Caroline secretly wants a career in fashion." Brennan frowned, trying to tell if he was joking.

"Just humor her, Bones. What could it hurt?"

"That's right, humor me on this. Now, do I even have to say it to you, cher?" She fixed Booth with her gaze. "Leave the cocky belt buckle at home."

"Yeah." He ducked his head. "Makes sense."

Brennan glanced at him as if surprised he had not argued. But then she guessed what he was thinking: Being too cocky is what could've gotten us into that situation in the first place.

Such a theory could not be proven. But it could not be disproven either, and the uncertainty was unpleasant. She reached over and gave his arm a brief touch.

**

Booth returned to his office while Caroline and Brennan went over her testimony.

"I'll just ask for a pretty straightforward summary of events," the attorney said. They practiced several prompts and responses, Brennan trying to achieve the appropriate balance of emotion.

Then Caroline brought up cross examination. "There's always the question of whether the defense attorney's going to play hardball. But this one would have to be desperate or just plain stupid, to try insulting your character, or using some of the standard ploys." She folded her hands on the conference table. "It's more likely he'll try to recast the evidence, to create doubt in the jury's mind, that Anders didn't actually do everything I'm accusing him of, or to point the finger at other people he dealt with.

"I'm relatively sure his lawyer's not going to focus on your part of the story. If he tries to put some of the blame on you and Booth, it'll be too easy for me to turn it around. Anders was already guilty when you two found him, and with the pressure you put on him, trying to find truth and justice, he ended up committing _more _crimes."

"Why are you telling me things I already know?" Brennan asked. "They sound like disclaimers."

Caroline gave a humorless huff of laughter. "All right, you got me." She leaned forward to explain. "Sometimes I decide to role play with witnesses, so they're fully prepared for whatever dirty tricks the other lawyer might dish out. But I was just giving us both reasons why that shouldn't be necessary."

Brennan hesitated. She didn't like the sound of _role play_—too much like one of Sweets' misguided ideas. But this trial was weighing heavily on her mind. She wanted to be prepared for the worst.

"Let's do it anyway."

**

Caroline did not want to expose the woman to aggressive questioning if it wasn't necessary. But she gave grudging assent, and told Brennan to simply respond in the best way she could. After taking a minute to pace the room gathering her thoughts, Caroline turned with a belligerent air.

"You've made a habit of attacking people without provocation, haven't you?" she challenged. "A gunshot to the leg, a kick to the belly… Physically attacking them, while simultaneously insulting their manhood and wearing a low-cut blouse."

For a second, she thought it must be joke. But Caroline raised a confrontational eyebrow, and Brennan found her answer. She kept her voice calm, but it was tinged with outrage.

"If you're implying that the way a woman dresses is somehow an invitation for a man to rape her, that is both offensive and completely untrue. As for the rest…" Brennan stared at the table's polished surface, organizing her words.

"Perhaps it's true in the past, that I've entered an altercation without sufficient provocation. But there _was _provocation here. Anders threatened my life and my safety, and that of my partner. He let his accomplice try to beat me up, and he struck me himself. Maybe… I should have fought _harder _than I did. But—" Her voice sounded tight and small. "Even with my martial arts training—I was afraid of getting hurt worse than I did."

She ground her teeth and didn't look at Caroline. "There's no way to tell, but if I'd kept fighting, I might be dead now. Like Miranda Charles. She was another woman who got in Anders' way. And what she got was a gunshot to the frontal bone."

Caroline came back to stand by the table. Her face had lost its stern, brash lines.

"I'm sorry, cherie. You can be sure I'd have objected to a question like that, from the opposition. But you couldn't have answered any better than you did."

**

Thirty minutes later, Booth sat in the same chair. Caroline was calling it the hot seat, because he, too, had decided to hear challenging questions.

The attorney strolled to the end of the room, then back.

"Do you consider yourself a risk taker?"

Booth shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"

"Isn't it true that you've sought treatment for a gambling addiction? And with the background you have—Army Ranger, military sniper—maybe confronting those two men was just one more risk for you to take. A thrill ride, so to speak. You didn't call for backup; you didn't have any other Feds with you. You wanted the glory of bringing them in all for yourself."

Booth found it hard to breathe. Of all the blame he had put on himself, that was still a new blow. The thought of some subconscious motivation on his part…he knew it couldn't be true. Hot, familiar anger made his skin burn, but it was tempered with long-standing guilt.

"Should I have called for backup?" he said quietly. "Yeah, I probably should, and I've been asking myself those questions every day since. But it has nothing to do with my own ambition. Because I would rather have let them get away without any kind of fight. I would have just walked away, not even gone in there. Let two felons escape easily—if that makes me a bad FBI agent, so be it. But I would have done it, gladly, rather than risk my partner getting hurt."

**

**A/N: **Aw, don't you just want to hug them right now?

It wasn't completely work and no play for me this week. I spent my free day playing with screencaps and making picspam. I'll post the new stuff to my livejournal page. If you're interested, please check it out! The link can be found on my fanfic profile.


	54. Chapter 54

**A/N: **No, we still haven't gotten to Anders' trial! The coverage is supposed to be brief, but it's almost turning into minute-by-minute reporting. Oh well. It's because I realized there are more lawyer tricks and angst possibilities to explore!

**Part 54**

The days before Brennan was set to testify passed with painful slowness. Her colleagues at the lab treated her with careful politeness, something she hadn't experienced since the first weeks after the assault.

And, like then, it seemed her skin was too thin, both literally and metaphorically. She hadn't snapped at anyone, as she had in the past. But she would have to ask Angela what exactly they noticed about her behavior, so she could control it better in the future.

Angela, in fact, made a pest of herself—for which Brennan was grateful, because it helped the days go more quickly.

They didn't have a murder case to collaborate on, but Angela often brought her laptop into Brennan's office, where they worked in companionable silence. At lunchtime, the artist would haul her off shopping or to a new vegetarian restaurant. And she called regularly in the evenings, enough that Brennan finally asked, "Aren't you neglecting Hodgins with all this?

"Nah," she said. "Well, maybe a little. But you're more important right now, Bren."

**

Booth and Brennan had little contact that week, and neither was sure if it was a good or a bad thing. They talked on the phone a few times, but it was odd not to be working together. It emphasized the strangeness of this week, and the fact they were effectively on leave for psychological reasons.

Wednesday night, Brennan had finished a much-needed workout at her gym. She hoped to benefit from the stress-relieving properties of exercise, but still felt irrationally preoccupied. Only one more day, she told herself, before court. I'll be glad to get it over with.

Returning to her locker, she found a message from Booth on her cell. He was heading to the diner, he said, so if she wanted to join him for some food, he would be at their usual table.

**

When she slipped into the chair across from him, his eyes crinkled with pleasure.

"I didn't think you were coming."

"Why not?"

"Well…" Booth put his spoon back into the bowl of beef stew. "This trial. We haven't even had our part in it, but it's making things… awkward. Making us relive, and—go over all that shit again."

"How do you know what it's making me do?"

"Because, Bones. You're human. I mean, most of the time." He smiled so she wouldn't take offense.

The waitress came by to get Brennan's order, and Booth took the chance to study his partner. She hadn't bothered to dry her hair after showering at the gym, and the locks were dark and damp, tending to curl. She wore a blue t-shirt under her black wool coat, which she had left on for warmth.

When the waitress left, she asked, "So, how's Parker?" Booth smiled a little, knowing this was her default topic of conversation, when she didn't have other ideas. But she also took genuine interest in the kid. So he told her more about that science project they would do this weekend, on her suggestion: the simulated dig.

"Parker liked the idea of real bones," Booth said, "from our chicken dinner or whatever, but he really wanted to make it dinosaurs. So we can get a little replica skeleton from the Jeffersonian gift shop and take it apart."

"Then he can learn some bone anatomy in the process."

"Exactly," Booth concluded. "You know, ninety-nine percent of kids love dinosaurs, but—"

"Was that the result of a survey?"

"Common knowledge, Bones. No, if any one of them decides to do a similar project, I just know Parker's is going to blow them out of the water."

"And that's…good?"

"Yeah, Bones. That's really good."

Her food arrived, and he watched her spear pieces of lettuce and chicken on her fork.

"I half expect Caroline or Anders' lawyer to show up," he said, glancing around the diner, "and tell us we can't be seen together before our part of this trial."

"Well, we're not on opposite sides."

"I know, but…" Booth leaned forward conspiratorially. "We could be collaborating to get our stories straight." His tone didn't achieve the lightness he'd intended, and Bones looked puzzled rather than amused.

Booth leaned back. He wrapped his hands around the warm bowl of stew, and chewed a big bite of meat before speaking again.

"When you met with Caroline, did she do the bad cop thing?"

"What?"

"You know, did she pretend to be the other lawyer in cross examine?"

"Oh. Yes. She gave me the option, and I said to go ahead. So I could be prepared for every eventuality."

"So did I." Booth glanced at the glass pane next to them, emblazoned with words meant to tempt passerby into the diner. _HAMBURGERS. SHAKES._

He asked Bones, "You want to talk about it?"

Her eyes went to his face, and she seemed anxious, whether for herself or for him, he couldn't tell.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"Good. 'Cause I really don't either." He stuffed another spoonful of beef and potato into his mouth, staring out the darkened window.

"Booth." Her rough tone made him look up, and her face was full of empathy and pain. "Whatever Caroline said… It's not true. You know it's not."

There must be, he thought, some poetic comparison for her eye color. Some kind of water, turbulent or tranquil… but he couldn't think of one. Her eyes were just… Bones. Clear and cool and concerned.

"I know it's not true," he told her. But that didn't keep it from festering.

_Do you consider yourself a risk taker, Agent Booth?_

Back at that suite, I _did _take a risk with our lives. With Bones' safety. Even if it wasn't intentional, and not because of some damn ambition… I still gambled. And we both lost.

**

Booth looked miserable over his bowl of soup, hunching his leather-jacketed shoulders. Brennan wanted to say something that would help.

"Caroline didn't mention the tactic you disliked so much," she offered, "in one of our meetings with her. You know, the defense lawyer…in rape trials, they often bring up the woman's sexual history. But Caroline must not think it's a possibility. Nor trying to say I made a willing bargain with Anders. Because it would be difficult to claim that I somehow cooperated, given my x-rays and other documented injuries."

Booth's expression told her she had not helped at all.

"I mean, that's one less thing for us to worry about," she tried again. "For _me _to worry about, really, but you're so…involved, I just thought…"

Brennan stopped, frustrated by her inability to comfort. And not even sure that now, before their testimony, was the time for it.

"It's okay," Booth said gently. "I know you're trying to be nice to me. Even if you're not a genius at it."

They shared a wry smile, but his voice dropped when he spoke again, and he didn't look at her. "Neither of us cooperated, Bones. There's no way in hell I'm letting his lawyer tell people that."

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "In a way, I did cooperate."

"_What_?"

"Well, one option Caroline might have addressed… There are instances where women trade sex for some type of benefit. Money, or assistance, or relative safety."

Booth felt physically ill. And by now, they had both forgotten their meals.

"You mean," he said hoarsely, "trading _that_… for our lives? Bones, you said it wasn't like that."

"No, it was never overt or clear-cut. More like, choosing the lesser evil. The known quantity. The _unknown _was Rawling's knife, their two guns—what they might have done if we'd resisted more strongly."

Her eyes weren't tranquil now, and she had to know how this was affecting him. "Booth, that's only one way to look at it," she soothed. "Another way is that _you _saved us by being cautious. You made that split-second decision, and it was the right one. Because we had reasonable evidence that both men could react with violence, if their plans were threatened."

Well, that was familiar territory: nothing he hadn't wrestled with before. He realized he was holding both fists on the tabletop. "Maybe it was my decision, but… you paid the price."

It was her turn to look miserable, eyes flickering down and away.

Booth made himself relax his hands, until she spoke again.

"I'm not sure they would have risked killing us. But…" Bones met his eyes, with a fragile kind of calm. "If that was the cost of our lives, my going into that room with them… It was worth it."

This time, Booth felt like he would choke. "You don't _really _see it like that? A _fair trade_?"

He spat out the last words, and his barely controlled temper made her snap, "I said acceptable, not agreeable!"

A tense second, and they tore their eyes away. Heaving identical sighs, each retreated to the far edge of the table.

The intensity of their conversation had drawn curious looks from their fellow diners. But Booth really couldn't give a shit.

So, he thought, we still have things to get out into the open. It was a relief, in a sense. But it also exacerbated the already high emotions of this week.

Emotions that Sweets kept saying they needed to talk about. Guilt. Trauma. Shame. The kid meant well, but he would eat that stuff up like a weed with fertilizer.

Bones spoke more softly. "That is not how I see it. It's merely one interpretation."

"I know," he said. "Yeah. But here's another interpretation. I should have done anything and everything to prevent what happened. Because…"

"Booth, you said that before." She looked honestly confused. "Are you actually saying that you…would have risked getting yourself killed? For me?"

"Knowing what I know now? Yeah. I think I would have."

"But—" Bones shook her head. "That is completely excessive. It plays into so many offensive stereotypes I can't even... The idea that rape is the worst thing that can happen, that some women say they'd rather be murdered? Along with the erroneous assumption that it was completely your fault. _And _these heroic standards that you have… It doesn't make _sense_," she finished petulantly.

"Yeah, well… Things don't always make sense. It's just part of how I feel."

Reluctantly, Bones accepted that. But she wasn't going to let him off the hook. "I know that theorizing might be a complete waste of time. But how do you think _I _would feel, if you had died to protect me? Or Parker—you would leave him without a father?"

Booth opened his mouth, but she went on. "I know, with second-guessing, we don't always think about real-life consequences. So your statement… it's touching, yes. Flattering, even, in a disturbing way. But Booth, it's outdated and selfish!"

Now he wasn't following her logic. Giving my life to protect you is _selfish_?

"Because…" Her voice rasped. "I can recover from the assault. I don't know how I'd recover from your death."

It took a moment for the words to sink in—for both of them. Then Booth felt a bittersweet warmth flood his chest, at the same time Brennan's cheeks flushed pink.

"Okay," he lifted his palms, "I give up. You can have this one." He couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at his mouth. "You're right. We're not supposed to waste our energy on what-ifs. But…"

They had leaned back from each other again, perhaps searching for a distraction. The waitress provided one, as she came to refill their water glasses. Booth raised his and took a sip. Then said over the rim, "It's kind of hard to always think rationally about what happened. You can understand that, can't you?"

Bones was fingering her glass, drawing patterns in the condensation.

"Yes," she said. "I can."

With her damp hair and the fine worry lines between her eyebrows, Booth wanted to kiss her. And if he did, he couldn't tell whether he would laugh or cry.

**

**A/N: **Please tell me if, in this mega-length fic, it ever feels like rehashing too much of the same stuff. (Which, in fact, might be a realistic reflection of what the characters feel.) But these B/B scenes seemed like the right place for some key quotes that I've had in my head for a while, such as, "you paid the price" to Brennan, and "you know it's not true" to Booth.

For the last lines of this section, I originally had 'Booth wanted to hug her.' But I took a risk that 'kiss' sounded better. Or maybe combining the two: 'He wanted to wrap her up and kiss her.' I could spend far too long debating the sound and significance of all three. But that's the maddening joy of writing, isn't it?


	55. Chapter 55

**A/N: **The blouse described here is modeled after the one Bren wears for a few scenes of Critic in the Cabernet. (Although my non-specific, quasi-AU story is set well before the conclusion of S4.) Seems appropriate she was wearing pink while talking about babies with Booth and Sweets, and doing that brief, cute reprisal of _dancing phalanges!_

Many thanks to the fabulous Amilyn, for tossing around ideas and enumerating points for the trial. And for being a beta reader on this section. I've never asked anyone to do that before, but this trial was making me second-guess myself, like B&B.

If not for her, these chapters would probably be less realistic and less angsty!

**Part 55**

The day of her court appearance, Brennan wore the pink shirt. It was a good thing her closet already housed a suitable color, because she wouldn't have been able to stomach buying one just for this. (Borrowing from Angela was a possibility, but her items suggested _flirty _and _bohemian_—not the attitude Brennan wanted to convey as a felony trial witness). So, she wore it. Nicely tailored, rosy pink, with darker pinstripes. Crisp white collar.

She drove first to the lab, since there were almost two hours to kill before Angela would accompany her to the trial.

**

They met Booth in the wood-paneled hallway outside the courtroom. He wore a pale blue shirt under his jacket and tie. Brennan liked it: not as stark as white; and it made her feel a bit better about the soft color Caroline had demanded.

The three of them hadn't been there long before a middle-aged couple approached. It was Miranda Charles' parents, Marc and Liana. Brennan had last seen the mother over tea at the diner, and Marc, at their home months ago, before the confrontation with Anders. She thought that even after a short time, the father looked older, with deeper lines around his eyes.

She and Booth offered them each a solemn handshake, and introduced Angela.

"Are you here as witnesses too?" the artist asked.

Marc nodded. "Ms. Julian called us in two days ago. And it's not likely the defense will want us on the stand, so we've been allowed to watch the trial."

"Just some," Liana said, "here and there. We'll probably go to the sentencing. But…" She glanced at her husband. "We've had enough. We were heading home."

So they won't hear our testimony, Brennan thought. I'm glad of that.

She studied Marc's tall frame and gray-brown hair. As she'd noted on their first meeting, Miranda had inherited her father's jaw line, although the rest of her face resembled her mother's.

Both parents did look tired, with lined foreheads and tense mouths. Booth and Angela made polite comments, while Brennan simply nodded respectfully.

The pair turned to leave, walking closely with their shoulders touching. Marc wore a dark sport coat, while Liana had chosen a peach jacket and another floaty skirt. Nearing the end of the long hallway, they slid their arms around each other. Marc's head tilted down to catch what his wife was saying.

"I'd like to draw them," Angela sighed.

Brennan glanced at her friend, whose eyes glowed with sadness, and her own brand of artistic illumination. "It's just so…_tragic_," she said. "And romantically stoic. Their faces, their eyes…the way they just _fit_ together, there." She gestured at the now-empty corridor. Then she realized Booth and Brennan were staring at her, and that now was probably not the time for a creative interlude.

At that moment Caroline appeared. Angela excused herself to find a seat in the courtroom, while the attorney ushered them into an office for some last minute advice.

"So, here's where things stand. We're four days into this, and you're some of my key players for wrapping up my side of the case. The jury's all primed for your testimony. Now—it's Lawrence Port for the defense—he might not try to malign your character in cross examination, but he could very well question your credibility."

Brennan looked skeptical. "How?" she asked. "Why?" Surely between the physical evidence, and their reputations as crime fighters, this would be unlikely.

"Because, cherie, that's what lawyers do. He tries to undermine my witnesses, and I try to undermine his. And because—for one thing, Booth was basically stoned when half the events took place." Caroline shrugged at him apologetically, and continued.

"Port has made a habit all week, trying to get Anders off easy by creating doubt in the jury's mind. But don't let him rattle you.

"Booth, that means you do _not _admit anything was fuzzy or hard to remember. Just stick to the story and answer as clearly as you can.

"If things get dicey, I have an expert I can call in. Some doctor who'll say how this drug might cause things like time dilation, but not memory loss or hallucination. Besides, Booth was a sniper and prisoner of war—not the type to lose his mental sharpness because of a little stress."

Booth was definitely not looking forward to this testimony. But he began to wonder why Caroline was spending so much time reassuring him. Why hadn't she moved on to advise Brennan?

It seemed his partner hadn't noticed anything unusual. As Caroline finished her comments, she gave Brennan a brief glance. It was hard to interpret, but Booth swore it looked like regret.

A second later he was saying, "Wait a minute, Caroline. You said he's been creating doubt all week. Would this mean that—"

His eyes went to Brennan, but the attorney cut him off.

"Time to go, let's get a move on. Booth, you're up first." She herded them back into the hallway and pointed at a bench. "Just sit tight. They'll call you in a few minutes. And from here on out, _no _talking about the case, not until you've finished testifying and completely exited the building."

**

They sat next to each other on the hard wooden bench.

Brennan tried to breathe calmly, and not elevate the symptoms of nervousness. Icy hands, hot face, twitchy limbs. In a few minutes, she would go in front of the courtroom, face Anders, and tell everyone what he had done.

I hate, she thought, public speaking. Even though I certainly have the high-level intelligence and vocabulary to enumerate events and respond to questions… this is not an academic lecture. Those are much more enjoyable, and I have more control over the situation. But no, she reassured herself. That's why I practiced with Caroline. I am prepared for this. Everything will be fine.

Suddenly, Booth was chuckling. She turned to him, and decided his amusement looked more ironic than sincere.

"What a pair we make, huh?" He glanced at her. "I was thinking about the other night at the diner. I realized I never said thanks. Or sorry. For…" A muscle pulsed in his jaw, but he seemed calm despite it. "You were willing to call it a fair trade. You know, giving… yourself, for our lives."

Brennan considered, then answered softly. "And you were willing to give your life, to have stopped it."

Booth still had that wry quirk to his mouth. "Even though I was outraged by your statement, and you were horrified by mine. The thanks and sorry still apply?"

"I'd say they do."

Just then the courtroom door opened and a marshal appeared. Booth stood up. "Come on, Bones. Let's go finish this damn thing."

**

They were permitted to hear the other's testimony. So when Booth took the stand, Brennan found her seat in the audience next to Angela.

She could not see Anders from where she sat. He was with his lawyer, to her left and several rows ahead; the view blocked by people in between. I won't think about him, Brennan told herself. I won't look at him, not until I'm up there.

She listened as Caroline took Booth through the events. Step by step, what had occurred. Brennan knew she was not the best judge, but it seemed that he showed an appropriate balance of pain and anger, and the right level of uncertainty about the criminals' actions, against his own decisions.

Caroline had said she would have them each focus briefly on their perceptions of the other person. This, Brennan knew, was to convey how the two men had caused them to suffer.

She looked at the floor while Booth hoarsely repeated what Anders had said. _Time to have some fun with your partner. _How he'd heard him laugh from the other room, followed by sounds of fighting.

He described, in terse but tender language, when the suspects brought her back to the main room. How carefully she'd moved, because of cracked ribs. Her face shocked and expressionless. The blood on her lip.

When Booth finished, Brennan felt herself taking a deep, slow breath, and imagined him doing the same. She recalled the stabs of pain on her left side, that had prevented her from inhaling sufficient oxygen for a week.

Next to her, Angela fidgeted with the purse she held on her lap. Brennan felt her casting periodic glances her way, but she was too focused on her impending testimony to return them.

Then came the cross examination. Anders' lawyer did not try to accuse Booth of undue risk taking. Brennan thought that if he had, they could've turned it around by pointing out how dangerous Anders really was, if faced with aggressive behavior.

The attorney, Port, was a distinguished-looking man with a rather thin nose, and dark hair going gray at the temples. He began by asking, "How long into these events was it, before my client allegedly injected you with the substance?"

"He _did _inject me," Booth said, "with an illegal drug he was smuggling. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes after we got there."

"I'm sorry, but I must point out," Port turned to the jury, "that the witness's comment assumes facts not in evidence. As I have already indicated, my client might not have made the best choices in his life, but he had a legitimate medical reason for possessing that vial."

Brennan had a good view of Caroline's profile. At this, her disgruntled expression showed she was ready to object, but Port hurried on.

"So, you were given a sedative-type drug," he said to Booth, "after only fifteen minutes. And about how long in total were you in that room, before being rescued?"

"We rescued ourselves," Booth clarified. "Almost four hours, like I told Caroline."

"So, for the majority of the time that you spent with the defendant, your perceptions were seriously altered."

Booth started to say something—that he had been fully aware of what was going on, or that the criminals were only in the room for about forty minutes, so he was perfectly lucid for half that time—but Caroline was already objecting. She stood up and explained that she could bring an expert witness to testify about the drug's effects, so Port should stop badgering Booth about it.

The defense lawyer then chose a slightly different tactic.

"To summarize the situation," Port said, "when your partner and the two men went into the other room…"

Safe in the audience, Brennan twisted her hands together. She squeezed hard to enough to feel the tendons and metacarpals shifting under the skin.

"…You were restrained with handcuffs and your senses had been affected by a drug," the lawyer said. "Do you claim to know exactly what went on behind a thick door, based on whatever bits of sound might have reached your ears?"

"Of course I can't know _exactly_." Booth looked like he was struggling to stay calm. He did not say that the sounds he'd heard fit with what he later learned from Bones, because he'd be accused of confabulating the whole thing after the fact.

"They _dragged _her in there." Booth corrected the implication that she had gone willingly. "I heard Anders' voice, and sounds of fighting. Yeah, your client injected me with something, but that doesn't change what happened. I know what I heard. What I saw."

Port decided to let that stand without further questions. He, and then Caroline, made several closing comments.

Brennan thought Booth had handled it well. But she couldn't discern, with a glance at the jury, whether they believed him, or whether he came across as stubbornly holding onto his own version, no matter the facts.

Then it was time for her testimony.

She and Booth passed each other in the aisle, without actually making eye contact. Brennan stepped into the wooden box, a level below the judge's imposing mahogany desk. She was sworn in and took her seat, realizing the chair was still warm from Booth's body.

Caroline was standing up and flipping through pages of notes. Brennan looked past her to Anders. There he sat, next to his lawyer. He was clean shaven this time. His suit looked expensive. He had the same thinning, close-cropped hair. He would have had the same self-satisfied expression, but…

Brennan felt heat flush her cheeks and begin to smolder in her belly. It felt like fury and shame and determination.

Anders barely looked at her. His expression seemed…bored. As if he had better things to do than listen to these proceedings.

This is the man responsible, she thought, for everything. Plotting drug schemes and fraud. Killing a girl who got in his way. Humiliating Booth—and hurting me—for investigating.

And he had the audacity to look bored. Anger and maliciousness, she'd have known how to handle. Not indifference.

I _will _tell this, she thought. I _will _see it through.

**

**A/N: **Cliffhanger! Should I have warned you before now? But the next section needs more tweaking; I have to maintain my high standards. Besides, how many people update this religiously, for such a long story? :)

So, I know B&B would not have been allowed to hear each other's testimony…and at the very last minute I started doubting my choice…but surely by next chapter (right, Amilyn?), the drama will be worth it.


	56. Chapter 56

**A/N: **I could probably continue fiddling with this, but didn't want to make you wait any longer!

A big round of applause goes to Amilyn, for being my beta again, and shooting me lots of ideas for upcoming scenes. Great minds do think alike, but I have her to thank for putting key ideas in my head. First, playing devil's advocate about the evidence, and then picturing this, which just HURT too good to ignore: Brennan on the stand, not expecting her credibility to be questioned like _this_. (BTW to Amilyn: I kept a couple of my original word choices. Writer's prerogative, right? :)

**Part 56 **

Caroline stepped forward to begin her questions, and Brennan recited the story as they had practiced.

She gave her observation of their captivity's effects on Booth. The humiliation of being restrained with his own cuffs; the pain from stretching his shoulders back. How she knew he hated anything that took away his abilities, but how alert he had still been despite the drug. She told how, on Anders' orders, Rawling had punched him, unprovoked. Hard, in the belly. To make them both cooperate.

As she got to the part where they'd dragged her into the next room, her throat got painfully tight, and her voice trembled.

She found Angela's face in crowd. Booth sat next to her, but Brennan could not look at him. Angela. Her best friend did not seem tearful or empathetic. She had a stern, fierce expression, and that was exactly what Brennan needed. It said, 'You tell them, sweetie. Don't let this bastard get away with it.'

Angela still clutched her purse, as though she wanted to jump up and start beating Anders over the head with it. Or, as she'd once threatened, pull out her art knife and inflict more serious damage.

Brennan drew an unsteady breath, and kept going.

Once she'd gotten started, it didn't take long to tell everything. Caroline let her get through it without interruption. But she dwelled a moment longer, asking Brennan to describe people's positions during the actual rape. How Rawling had bent her face-first over the table. How he'd stayed at one side, holding her down, while Anders came up behind her.

When she stopped speaking, Caroline nodded and thanked her. Then she returned to her seat.

The defense lawyer got up from his place next to Anders and walked confidently over.

Port laced his hands together behind his back and rocked a little on his toes. "Has it occurred to you," he began, "that because Mr. Rawling is deceased, you and my client are the only ones who know what happened in that room?"

"It has occurred to me, yes."

The lawyer nodded. "I'm not here to argue certain facts. We know that both men were in the room with you. We know you scratched both of them. We know you were assaulted and injured. But," he said, "I'm sure the jury is wondering: why would only one man have committed rape, while the other man _only _engaged in a physical altercation?"

As he spoke, he looked at the jury as much as at Brennan. She glanced uncertainly toward the judge. "Am I supposed to answer that? Why did I fight Rawling?" Port raised his eyebrows for her to continue. "Because—it was part of the 'deal' Anders made for me. If I fought Rawling and won, maybe he wouldn't get to… have a turn. I didn't trust Anders, but—I wanted to fight, after what had just happened."

At that, something like a smirk played around the attorney's mouth.

"And if you're asking why Anders wanted to see it," Brennan said, "I don't know why. He was in charge. He likes exerting power."

"I see," Port said. Then, to the jury, "You are all intelligent people, and you probably know that the simplest explanation is usually the accurate one. Isn't it more likely," he turned to Brennan, "that the assailant you named in the physical fight, Rawling, was also the assailant in—"

"Excuse me, your honor," Caroline stood up and cut in. "But if he's going where I think he's going, I have a document I'd like to enter into evidence."

"Ms. Julian," the judge said, "you know full well that you can't present new evidence until Mr. Port has had a chance to review it."

"And now is hardly the time," Port criticized, "when I was in the middle of my questioning."

Brennan shifted in the witness box, watching the lawyers argue.

"But this document," Caroline said, "will make that avenue of inquiry completely unnecessary. Not to mention foolish," she muttered.

Port looked offended. "If she has had vital evidence in her possession and not shared it until now…" He appealed to the judge, clearly hoping he would reprimand her.

"Well," Caroline pointed out, "it _wasn't _vital, until now."

The judge looked displeased. "You've been in this business too long, Ms. Julian, to start ignoring the rules."

"And I've been in it long enough to know when someone's line of reasoning is going to make us all look like fools. Especially you," she challenged the other attorney.

Brennan tried to decide what Caroline knew that she didn't, but was distracted by the judge.

"Ms. Julian, you have been stretching my patience in this case. And now you insult your colleague, and imply I'm a fool as well? I suggest you sit down and wait until Mr. Port is finished, before speaking again."

Caroline glowered and seemed ready to argue, but managed to make it look gracious when she took her seat.

Port turned his attention back to Brennan, who was still wondering what document Caroline wanted to use as evidence.

The lawyer reclaimed his train of thought. "As I was saying… Doesn't it strike you as unlikely, that one of the men was the rapist, while the other engaged in a physical assault?"

Perhaps the question was rhetorical, because the lawyer kept speaking.

"I have demonstrated all week that Ms. Julian lacks sufficient evidence to tie my client definitively to any of these crimes. He was simply tagging along with the hardened criminal, Rawling. He was merely a voyeur in this unfortunate instance."

"No, that's not what happened." Brennan was shaking her head, and saw Caroline in her peripheral vision, half-rising from her chair to object.

But Port stepped closer, not giving anyone a chance to refute what he'd said. "As a scientist, you must be aware that _none _of the physical evidence can conclusively link my client to sexual assault."

"But there was plenty of evidence—"

"Evidence collected at the hospital, yes—as Ms. Julian has told us. But it consisted of bruising, and one strand of hair. No semen, and no DNA, because the hair did not have an intact root. All of which," Port concluded, "proves that you were assaulted. But _not _who the guilty person is."

Brennan was still shaking her head, in shock. She _knew _all of this information, and yet, she had never connected it to _this _trial and evidence. The hair they'd found on her clothing…she had assumed it would clearly match Anders. Hadn't Caroline said as much? But in fact, there were many ways to discredit that information. How exactly had the hair been analyzed? Had it come from Anders when he'd raped her, or could it have transferred while they struggled? Was it indeed a pubic hair, or simply one of similar composition from another part of the body? The chest and underarms, for example, also produced hair in response to hormones.

No DNA, she thought. Not conclusively, not from the rape.

Brennan felt her skin go hot and cold. Her leg muscles were jittery, her breathing irregular. Rows of people were staring at her. The lawyer and judge, a few feet away. The faces of the jury and the audience. They blurred into a confusing landscape, and Brennan realized tears had come to her eyes.

The evidence, she thought dazedly, is not enough. Science is not enough.

Anders' lawyer was still watching her, and she could not come up with a response. But Caroline saved her from it.

The prosecutor had gotten to her feet while Port lectured about evidence. "He's jumping the gun," she accused, "and harassing my eyewitness with questions he's _supposed _to save for my expert witness."

Port waved her off, raising his hands in apology. "Of course, I can save these things for the next testimony. I simply wanted to respect Dr. Brennan's reputation as a scientist, to get her interpretation of said evidence. But Ms. Julian is right, that now is not the time for science. Now is the time for eyewitness accounts, and this testimony," he studied Brennan, "is about your feelings."

"No," she said, "it's about the truth. And that's exactly what I've told you."

"Is it?" he asked, swift and harsh. "Tell me, how did you feel when Rawling was shot?"

The change of topic caught her off guard. Brennan dug her fingers into the fabric of her slacks, and leaned back as if to physically distance herself.

Caroline objected, for relevance this time, but the judge was impatient with her and overruled it.

"I'm sure the jury remembers," Port said, "when we summarized what happened to Mr. Anders' acquaintance, and that Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan saw his demise. So," he advanced on the witness box again, "when Rawling had just been shot by a sniper, when you were standing over his dead body, how did you feel?"

"I…" Brennan stared at her knees and the cloth still pinched between her fingers. She had nothing but the truth. "I felt glad he was dead. Because he'd hurt or threatened so many people. But it sickened me, the fact I was glad."

Port ignored that. "You were _glad _he was dead, just like you were glad for the chance to fight him after he raped you!"

"What? No—"

"Because death by gunshot is too quick, isn't it? Rawling never had the chance to pay for what he did, and you felt cheated. Isn't it true that you're accusing his companion now, because you want _someone _to be charged with that assault? And my client is the only one left to blame, just so you can get revenge!"

Brennan stared at the attorney. All of his comments, and Caroline's objections, finally made sense. But they were completely unbelievable.

"You think I'm _lying_?" Her voice cracked. "Accusing the wrong man… out of spite?"

"Spite, vengeance, whatever you want to call it."

Port kept talking, and Caroline tried to cut in, but Brennan barely heard it.

After everything that I did… I fought them, I scratched them. I told the story multiple times. I rehearsed this with Caroline; I was prepared. I wore this stupid pink blouse. And now…

"Can you think of one piece of evidence," Port demanded, "other than just your word, that would absolutely prove Anders was the one who raped you?"

Brennan felt outrage building inside her. But before she could think of a response, her eye caught a motion in the audience.

**

Booth shot out of his seat. He stood in the aisle, arms held stiffly at his sides, and he quivered with rage.

"Excuse me," the judge said, "Agent Booth—?"

Anders' lawyer had turned around at the disruption. "Your honor!" he complained.

Booth didn't say anything, but he wanted to march up the aisle and plow his fist into Port's face.

Angela was plucking at his sleeve, hissing something under her breath. From the witness box, Bones had that look he hated, like she was on guard for another damaging blow.

"Booth," Caroline said, "you'd better sit down if you know what's good for you."

But Booth ignored the tumult. He glared at all of them in turn. He glared at Anders' despicable lawyer. At the judge, for allowing this. At Caroline, for not warning them. He glared at Anders, for causing this whole fucking mess. Then back to the defense attorney, who shifted under his hard stare, and started looking around for the marshal.

It had only taken seconds, but now Booth spoke. His voice was not loud, but each word was heartfelt and intense.

"Bones is the most honest and straightforward person I've ever met. She does _not _lie."

The room erupted into arguments. Port protesting, Caroline defending, the judge threatening to throw him out if he said another word.

Booth stood there, oblivious. He and Brennan simply looked at each other. His own gaze must've held as much pain as encouragement. But somehow, it was enough. Because of the way her eyes glimmered at him. Glimmered across the courtroom, through the tears that had welled there at the lawyer's accusations.

Booth could see her anger, about this testimony. Her injury and disbelief. Bones had that amazing innocence, despite all the shit they'd seen in this job. She expected everyone to be honest and follow the rules. Because that was the rational thing. That was what she did.

He could see her gratitude, too. Something about the tilt of her head, the angle of her brows. _Thank you for saying what you did. For literally standing up for me._

The lawyers' talk finally penetrated their brains, and Brennan looked away first. As she did so, a tear slipped down her cheek.

Booth thought his heart had never felt more full or more fragile than it did at that moment.

She brushed the tear away, and maybe no one had seen it. No one but him.

Booth sat back in his seat, and watched Bones dab her nose on her sleeve, quickly collecting herself.

Next to him on the bench, Angela gave him a look that seemed touched, and proud, and daunted, all at once.

No one came to escort Booth out.

The judge and Anders' lawyer nitpicked for a few minutes, something about an unsolicited character witness. Then Port cleared his throat, and got back to his concluding statements.

He stepped back to the witness box, partially blocking Brennan from view.

"Let me repeat my question. Is there any evidence, aside from just your word, that would absolutely prove Anders was the one who raped you?"

It was Brennan's turn to glare. She had no way out of this question, and the attorney knew it. Booth knew it. He clenched a fist to keep himself jumping out of the seat again.

Bones forced the answer, defiantly, between clenched teeth.

"_No_."

'Atta girl, Booth thought. Because it sounded like she was really saying, "_You can go to hell_."

**

Caroline stood up with a resolute air, to redirect the jury from Port's conclusions. When she got to the witness box, Brennan's eyes glittered icily. Yes, she thought, I probably deserve that.

Caroline got right to the point. "Dr. Brennan, have you said anything in your testimony today that was untrue?"

"No. I haven't."

"And can you _positively_ identify the man who raped you?"

"Yes."

"Point him out, if he's in this courtroom."

Brennan raised her arm and pointed straight at Anders.

Of all the emotions Caroline had recently seen on her face, this one was new. It made her jaw muscles taut. It made color suffuse her cheeks, more than had been there a second ago. It was the pure burn of hatred.

"Would you tell the jury," she said, "when was the _first _time you described the events in question?"

Brennan paused, and Caroline saw the pieces fall together in her mind. She had realized how they would verify the truth of her account.

"Right after it happened," Brennan answered. "I told the local police officers. I gave them my statement when they arrived, after Booth and I got free of our restraints."

"And did you have any reason to lie at that time, about which man had raped you?"

"No." She looked at the jury. "I didn't."

Caroline, too, turned to the jury. "She had no reason to lie then, and she's not lying now. Those original statements, once they're entered as evidence, will corroborate everything that Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan have said."

**

**A/N: **I sort of liked ending on Brennan's 'go to hell,' but wanted to include a follow-up scene, so things would not look hopeful for Anders. I'm working on the rest of the fallout… Hopefully I can post a short chapter this weekend, but I can't make any promises.

Whew! Did you survive? ;)


	57. Chapter 57

**A/N: **Thank you to my lovely beta Amilyn for reading, giving feedback, and helping me agonize over word choices.

**Part 57**

The judge called a recess for lunch, and Angela and Booth rose stiffly from their seats. Outside the courtroom, Bren and Caroline met them. A second later, Booth gave a 'wait here' kind of gesture, and everyone but Angela took off down the hall. Probably back to wherever they'd met before, only this time, she thought, they were all going to yell at each other. Booth and Bren looked halfway between stunned and murderous, while Caroline seemed ready for damage control.

Angela, herself, ran down the hall to the nearest bathroom, and cried.

She leaned over and braced her hands on the counter of sinks, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

I should have known, she thought. I _planned _to drive Bren to court, and sit there offering moral support. But—stupidly—I didn't realize I'd actually have to _listen_. Now her head hurt. Her stomach ached. And her heart felt bludgeoned. As she'd listened, to piece by torturous piece of the story, it was like someone took a baseball bat to her heart. It was now lodged somewhere in her throat, weepy and bleeding.

Angela felt her nose starting to run, and dug in her purse for a Kleenex.

She'd known most of the events, of course. Bren had already told her some of the bad stuff. But not so much. Not all in order.

And not Booth's part. How his drugged senses were still desperately aware. His view of Brennan, coming out of that room. Dazed, cautious, small.

Angela looked up at her reflection. Her face was puffy and red, her mascara ruined.

"I'm a fucking artist," she told herself. "Not a crime fighter."

I take my risks with painting or sex. I'm not cut out for this. Not for listening, let alone going _through _something like that. Not for dealing with gun-toting crooks, who…

More tears choked her throat, and she hung her head.

One of the scariest thoughts was just how much worse things could have been.

Angela stared at the beige countertop and remembered something Sweets had said, months ago. _Any attempt to wrest control from a rapist who is cruel and determined often results in escalation of harm._

Brennan must have known this. But it hadn't stopped her. Her worst injuries resulted after kicking Rawling—trying to gain a little control over the situation. She _hadn't _lost that fight, and they'd fractured her ribs in return.

That 'deal' Anders had made…it was only a deal so long as it entertained him. He could have dispensed with it on a whim. He could have raped her again. Or Rawling could have. They could have raped her _with _anything. _Done _anything.

Angela's eyes squeezed shut, but it didn't block the possibilities.

How angry had the criminals been? They could have cut Bren, stabbed her with that concealed knife. She'd have been too badly injured to walk out of there. The men would have left the suite, left Brennan bleeding to death. Left Booth tied and powerless, calling her name.

God, she thought. Booth.

He would never have recovered from something like that. Even this—especially now, at the trial—had seriously strained his resources.

In the courtroom, Angela had watched him almost more carefully than she'd watched Brennan. She'd seen how many shades paler he went, every time someone said "rape" in a sentence. And the fact that those sentences were connected to Brennan…

It's not _fair_, Angela cried to herself. It's not fair what happened to them, how they have to keep dealing with it, keep on fighting.

She felt her throat close up again, but resisted. She couldn't stay in here whimpering. It was time for a pep talk. She blew her nose, then reapplied her mascara.

Sweetie, she told herself, it's okay. Just be there for Bren. Just drive her back to the lab, and do whatever she needs. Cry, or rant, or listen to her lecture. Even just sit with her in stoic silence. Then, tonight, take that girl home with you, and be the best friend you know how to be.

**

Booth, Brennan and Caroline arrived back in the office where they'd met before testifying.

To be honest, Bones had dragged them there, her eyes still glittering with anger. Booth could tell she wasn't sure who to be furious at. Anders and his lawyer, or Caroline, or Booth himself, despite his show of support in the courtroom.

Booth planted himself at her side, in the center of the room. Caroline barged past them, turning around when she reached a desk by the window.

"I know, I know," she placated, holding her hands in front of her. "I really didn't think Port would try a tactic like this. But since he _was _crazy enough—trust me, this was the only way for it to go."

"Did you know?" Brennan asked accusingly. "Did you think he might try it?"

"She knew." Booth's voice came low and dangerous.

Bones glanced at him, then back to Caroline with a laser-like glare. "You realized he would do that! And you didn't warn me?"

The attorney was not someone who was easily intimidated. But Booth thought she looked resigned, even rattled.

"No, I didn't," Caroline said, "since that line of questioning wasn't very likely—so I _thought_. But, cherie," she took a step forward, "I had to let your response be completely natural. Confused, incredulous, indignant—_that's _the uncensored version. The one that draws the jury in."

Brennan was shaking her head. "You're talking about theatrics. It's ridiculous; it's not about the facts at all!"

Caroline stood her ground. "Think about this: if I'd warned you, if you were _expecting _him to say Rawling was the rapist? You would not have been surprised. It might very well have made you _look _like a liar."

Brennan just stood there, tight-lipped.

"That excuse," Booth growled, "sounds awfully weak right now."

"I made a choice, all right," Caroline said, "not one I'm very proud of, but one that's going to help win us this case. Because you," she glanced at Brennan, "come out looking like the besieged survivor. Port comes off cruel and crafty, and Anders looks even worse than that."

Bones was not listening. "This is just like Maggie Schilling's murder trial. No one thinks—neither of you trust me to respond properly!" Now she included Booth in her blazing stare.

"You have to resort to tricks and surprises to get what you want out of me! Maybe I should have worn blue today," she spat, "because of its magic powers to convey truth. Not something _pink_—" she grabbed the hem of her shirt in both hands, "that says _flimsy _and _feminine _and _fickle_!"

Then she whirled and stormed out of the room.

Silence fell. After a moment Caroline heaved a sigh, and dropped into a plump leather chair. She looked at Booth, her face sorrowful, but her eyes adamant.

"Will you do me a favor, cher? Go catch her before she flees the building. I have some paperwork I need from both of you."

Booth wanted to refuse, but knew Caroline wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. He ducked back into the hall. Bones had just disappeared around the corner, so he jogged down to the turn. At the end of the next corridor, Angela had caught Brennan. She was peering into her face, and holding her arm as if she'd just stopped her from running past. A second later Angela noticed him, and he waved at them to come back.

They weren't coming immediately, however. Booth went back to the office. He crossed the threshold, and stared darkly at Caroline.

She sighed again, as if steeling herself. "Go on, now. Just say it, whatever it is."

"Fine." He wanted to shout, but the tone that emerged was bitter and weary. "I know _why _you did it. Why you didn't warn her. But right now…" I can't help hating you for it.

"The ends will justify the means, Booth. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah," he told her. "You'd better."

Then he collapsed into the other chair, and put his head in his hands.

He had thought, halfway through Brennan's testimony, that he'd go straight to his gym after this. To administer a serious beating to a padded bag—the only way to kill the adrenaline buzzing through his system. But now… he was just so fucking tired. As tired as he'd been after a long mission. After lying on his belly in the dirt and sighting down his scope, to shoot someone through the head. After hiking back ten miles through unfriendly territory, the straps of his pack biting into his neck.

That's it, he would think. I'm done. No more.

Booth stared at his shoes on the plush carpet. He knew why Caroline had let it play out this way. And maybe it _would _advance their case. But that didn't make things any better.

He felt like Parker in his most whiny, stubborn mood. Always asking _why? why_? Even when he knew why.

Because—that's how it has to be. That's how it is.

**

Minutes later, Caroline met them all back in the corridor. Angela stood watchfully next to Brennan, who looked twitchy and defiant.

The prosecutor held up a stack of papers necessary to the next part of her case. "I'm sorry about this," she said, "but unless you want to go back on the stand this afternoon, you'll read these and sign."

She gave them copies of their statements from the scene. Booth and Brennan were to study them, tell her if anything, even small details, seemed inaccurate, and then sign affidavits to the truth of those original reports.

Bones took her papers without looking at either them or Caroline. She turned on her heel and strode back down the hall. Angela shot Booth an anxious glance, then took off after her friend.

"She _does _know I need those back today?" Caroline said grumpily.

Booth watched her go, guessing she would find some private place to read the thing. A place, unlike this office where he stood, that did _not _resemble the hotel where they'd been held.

Right now, he clutched his own papers, and went back into the room. Its sepia color scheme and ugly curtains. Its sedate bookshelves of court reporter volumes.

Caroline seemed ready to follow him in, but Booth already had his hand on the door. She took one look at his face, and held up her hands. "Fine. I'll just find someone else's office where I can prepare—"

Booth shut the door in her face.

**

Brennan read her statement on the steps of the courthouse. She stood off to one side, where a wide stone railing ran between decorative columns. Bushes flanked the steps, and sparrows flitted past. People in business suits stepped up and down the walkway, while traffic honked on nearby streets.

Angela had followed, but Brennan ignored her. And she didn't hover, but produced a sketch pad and found a seat some distance away.

Now, Brennan did not think, not beyond this next task. Read. Check accuracy. Sign.

Once or twice, the sun broke through an overcast sky, making the white pages too bright to look at.

**

The partners delivered their forms back to Caroline, and then they were free to go. Booth, Brennan and Angela walked out together.

Down the long hallway toward the exit, Brennan glanced sideways at Booth. Re-reading her statement, somehow, had shriveled away her anger. At least, the part aimed at Booth. Because he was just an innocent bystander here. Yes, he had tricked her during Maggie Schilling's trial. Betrayed her, even. But she understood why. And he had never done so again.

They were walking down the white stone steps now. Booth and Angela murmured pleasantries, and then he angled away from them, toward his own car. Brennan still watched him. He did not hold his broad shoulders as straight as usual. As he jogged down the steps, the bounce had gone out of his calf muscles.

I didn't thank him, she realized, for standing up for me. In the courtroom, and against Caroline too.

Booth, she wanted to call after him, are you all right? Where are you going? Will you just spend time with Parker this weekend, or…?

She did not want him to feel alone, to feel guilty.

"Ange, wait." She pulled on her friend's arm at the bottom of the steps. "Will you call Cam for me? Or someone who's close to Booth? Ask her to stay with him tonight."

Angela opened her mouth to ask a question, and Brennan went on. "Because you're staying with me, right? You already said I'm 'stuck with' you. I want to make sure someone sticks with Booth."


	58. Chapter 58

**A/N: **It was a bit of a workout to write this one, haha. You'll see why. Plus, Angela gets a fangirl moment.

**Part 58**

Angela drove back to the Jeffersonian after both testimonies. Brennan sat in the passenger seat, watching the scenery without seeing it.

She wanted to shower and change her clothes—as if Anders had put his hands on her again. The pink blouse was damp under the arms from nervous sweat, and she couldn't stand the clammy feeling.

"So, what'll it be, Bren?" Angela asked. "Should we go straight to the lab, or out to lunch someplace? Or do you need to go beat something at the gym?" Her tone was only partly joking.

"No," Brennan said. "I'll do that after work. Lunch, I think, at the lab. I'm actually hungry."

Angela decided not to comment on the fact that she _would _go wallop something later. "Because you barely ate anything for breakfast, right? It's understandable, sweetie. I could hardly eat beforehand, and all I did was sit there and watch."

They were nearly back to the parking garage before Angela spoke again. "Bren, honey… You're still having some nightmares, aren't you?"

Her friend was silent for too long, giving away the answer. "Hey," Angela said as she turned down the ramp into the parking structure, "I think that will get better, now this testimony is over. Or at least once the trial's finished. I know it will."

Brennan gave her typical response. "You don't have any evidence for that."

"No… no, I don't. I just have a feeling, okay? Trust me."

They pulled to a stop in the dim parking garage. Brennan looked skeptical, but she wanted to believe in her friend's confidence, and comfort.

**

Back at the lab, Brennan made it until almost five o'clock before the look in her eye became more wild and less controlled. Angela knew she'd better get her out of there, so she wouldn't break the jaw of the next intern who came up behind her with an innocent question.

They went to Brennan's gym. She told Angela that she did not, in fact, crave a round with the punching bag. Just a good, exhausting run on the treadmill.

Angela didn't feel _that _energized. But she stepped gamely onto the moving belt, glad that they could find two adjacent machines.

Once they'd warmed up at a swift walk, Bren started increasing her speed and incline. Angela decided to stay with her as long as she could—which might not be very long. She fitted the earbuds of her iPod into her ear, waiting for Bren to caution her about the volume. _In a venue like this, with a great deal of ambient noise from treadmills and fans, it can be easy to turn the volume higher than is strictly healthy for your hearing._

But Brennan didn't caution her. She was looking straight ahead, at her reflection in the darkened window that faced the row of treadmills. Or maybe, Angela thought, looking _through _her reflection.

They jogged. Angela felt her ponytail tap and tickle the back of her neck with each stride. She'd put on her favorite pink shorts and a white shirt, while Brennan wore knee-length black pants and a dark gray t-shirt. Patches of sweat were starting to show at the neck and underarms, as she kept upping the intensity.

Angela tried to match her. The treadmill hummed as it raised itself a few degrees. Not super fast or steep, but pretty damn respectable.

She tried to ignore the growing burn in her lungs and leg muscles, and glanced at her friend's profile. Bren's cheeks were flushed, and a few tendrils of hair curled damply by her ears. Even the backs of her arms were pink, from the blood rocketing through her veins.

What is she thinking right now? Angela wondered. Aside from, probably, _Fuck Anders_. A_nd his lawyer._

The way Brennan stared through the glass into the dusk outside… Maybe she ran to flee the events in that suite, or the courtroom of people she'd faced today.

The way her feet smacked the belt with confident power… Maybe she imagined crunching Anders' bones with each step.

Maybe she ran _to _something, rather than away. Toward freedom, or peace.

Maybe the ancient rhythm cleared her mind, and she ran simply to run.

At this point, Bren tapped a slightly higher speed. Angela attempted it, but gave up, gasping, after thirty seconds. Punching in a more sensible clip, she grabbed her sweat towel to mop her face.

_I don't have that killer instinct right now. If I ever did._

She would trot along at a humble pace, and admire her friend out of the corner of her eye.

The easy twist of Brennan's shoulders as she ran. The controlled bounce of her hips, and long, ground-eating strides.

She was not spare and sinewy like the stereotypical runner, but had a grace and economy of motion that Angela longed to capture on paper. Sketching someone who wasn't holding still, or figures alive with movement—of course it could be done, and done well. But it had never been her strong suit.

The sketching on the courthouse steps hadn't been anything meaningful. She'd lacked the concentration to draw a city landscape, or people passing by. It was just an activity to keep busy, and not distract Brennan from reading that statement. Not make her any more uncomfortable than she already was.

So, a page of the sketchpad was scrawled with doodles—angry ones, at that. She'd been ready to draw Anders dying many horrible deaths. Ready to make an effigy of him, stick it with voodoo needles and burn it.

Angela had drifted too far to one side of the moving belt, and suddenly wobbled, almost stepping off and crashing. She swore, grabbed the handrails, and tried to get her feet back under her. Bren cast her a worried glance, but did not break her own stride.

A man on the other side had finished his workout and was wiping down his treadmill. He gave Angela a "happens to everyone" kind of smile, and she shrugged sheepishly back. Then, looking at the readout on her screen, she decided she had run enough. It was time to lower her speed and let her heart rate come down—after that shot of adrenaline from tripping.

As Angela slowed to a walk, Bren dabbed her face with a towel. She drank a squirt of water from her sports bottle, and kept running.

Angela sipped her own water. She lowered the music piping into her ears, and listened, instead, to the whir of the treadmill. To the tireless beat of Brennan's breathing and feet.

Her friend must be _in the zone _right now. She was totally focused. The bright pink flush on her fair skin, the beading sweat. Her eyes shone with pain and rapture.

I need to draw that, Angela thought.

Because Bren was mesmerizing. Kick-ass, hot and tragic.

She had stopped raising the incline, but punched buttons to go even faster. Her breathing got more harsh, yet under control. It huffed in her throat, and the sound was pure tenacity.

Angela had to paint this. Pencil first, then oil or acrylic…

But not exactly _here_, a piece called _Woman on Treadmill_. That would not capture the experience: her effort, her breath, the trickles of sweat.

She wanted to put a spear in Brennan's hand and turn her loose on a forest path. Gorgeous and predatory and primal, like a goddess of the hunt.

And _that _was the image. It burst onto her consciousness the way some of her best ideas had. She would paint Brennan. Treading a forest trail, an old-fashioned weapon in her hand. Wearing a gauzy dress that in no way hindered her movement. She would emerge from shadowed trees, suffused in moonlight.

Next to Angela, the literal Brennan finally slowed down.

She jogged more easily; her breathing quieted. She dragged a hand over her brow, and walked. Angela kept walking too, up a slight incline, so she wouldn't feel like a complete slug next to her Amazon best friend.

Yeah, she admitted, I'm romanticizing her. But I know the gritty reality—all too well, now. Besides, I'm an artist. I'm allowed.

**

They left the treadmills for the stretching area. Bren looked calmer, Angela thought. And she asked, "A little better now, sweetie?"

They sat facing each other in butterfly poses, knees bent and feet together, to stretch their inner thighs.

Brennan exhaled, her sweaty t-shirt clinging to her breasts. "A little better," she agreed, "yes."

But she still wanted to do some weight lifting before they went home.

Angela made a little wail of protest. Her idea of working out was to climb a big hill with her sketchbook, then sit at the top drawing landscapes. Or to limber up in yoga class, while ogling the hot instructor. (Man or woman, thank you very much.) Not to stomp around on foam floor tiles among grunting men who hefted dumbbells bigger than their heads.

But she followed Brennan nonetheless. She mirrored her friend in a series of upper body exercises—except for the choice of weight. Bren was pulling an impressive amount, working really hard each repetition, until she couldn't do another.

When she released the bar of the lat pull-down machine, Angela said, "Damn, sweetie. You're kicking ass today. You've kicked _my _ass. Trying to be Xena, or what?"

"I don't know what that means."

"It's a compliment, babe." Angela made a mental note to rent some episodes from Netflix and have Brennan watch them. Wasn't it her duty to expand her friend's pop culture knowledge?

They now stood at one side of the room, waiting for a spot to open up by the mirrors. The background noise of clanking weights and grunge music was not so loud they had to shout to hear each other.

"Well," Brennan said, "I've been thinking recently… I imagine Booth would know some diet and training tips, if I wanted to gain a little upper body muscle."

She selected some solid dumbbells from the rack and rested them on a bench.

"I am relatively strong from yoga and martial arts," Bren continued. "But my physical structure tends more toward a classic female shape. And, while I've noticed that my height sometimes intimidates people, it might be nice to add some muscle weight, to contribute to that effect."

Angela could guess why Bren had brought this up now. But she stuck to her lines as a sidekick.

"You really _are _going for Xena, aren't you?" Her words tried to tease, but Bren did not smile. "Sweetie," she said, "you're strong and smart and beautiful. You already _are _intimidating. But seriously, is that the _first _thing you want people to think when they see you?"

Brennan picked up the weights with a grunt that rivaled the men.

"Sometimes, that's exactly what I want."

**

**A/N: **Can you guess that I spend a lot of time at the gym? (Both for work and workouts.) Not too enamored of treadmills, though. How could you choose that, over the Colorado foothills?

And btw, I hope no one thinks we ladies need any special reason to hit the weights. It's easy to add strength if you put your mind to it, but it's hard to 'bulk up,' unless you're oozing testosterone. So get to it, gals! :D

**Outtake **from this section (which I dedicate to my dear pal Caitlin, even if you're not caught up on reading :) — Angela reminds Brennan that Hodgins, as well as Booth, might have nice weight training tips. "He's pretty ripped under that lab coat. And yes," anticipating Brennan's ignorance of slang, "that's a good thing."


	59. Chapter 59

**Part 59**

Booth didn't think he could force himself back to the office after court. But he did anyway, realizing that if he didn't occupy his brain with some task, it would start rehashing every single thing that had happened during his and Brennan's testimony. So he continued one of the projects he'd been doing that week. Nothing very taxing or exciting, but a job to do.

He left early, first to run errands: making sure he had everything for this weekend with Parker, including science project supplies, and wholesome food (well, some favorites were less wholesome than others).

Then Booth went for a workout at the gym. His energy had abandoned him in the courtroom and not come back. But he put on old clothes, sheathed his fists in boxing gloves, and sparred with a heavy bag.

He did not beat it to a pulp. He did not challenge any young jocks to a fight. He just swung and dodged, socked and jabbed, with a tired sort of rage. Almost by rote, knowing—or at least hoping—that he'd feel better afterward.

To catch his breath, Booth jogged in place before the black vinyl bag.

He had barely looked at Bones during her testimony. It would have been too much, while listening to her tell the story. The way her voice had hesitated, and caught, and then strengthened itself to go on.

So he had watched the jury instead. And he'd seen sympathy on many faces: a frown here, a subtle shake of the head there. Sympathy, and horror.

At the part when Rawling watched the rape. When Anders announced his 'bargain,' and Brennan had to fight.

_Had anyone untied the rope from your hands at this point_? Caroline had asked.

_During the fight? No, they were still tied. _

Booth struck and then dodged as the heavy bag swung on its creaking chain. His eyes fixed on it, as if on an unpredictable opponent.

_And what happened at the end of this confrontation?_

_Both men knocked me to the floor, and Rawling kicked me. It caused fractures to the seventh and ninth ribs._

Booth dropped his shoulder and hit the bag low and hard. Right into the ribs of an imaginary felon.

**

After dinner that night, Booth was puttering around his apartment in sweats and a t-shirt. He washed dishes and put them away, then made sure Parker's room was ready for him to stay over.

The doorbell rang, and he opened it to find Hodgins standing there.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Then Booth tensed. "Is everything okay?" Something could've happened to Bones, he thought. Or Angela.

"No, man, everything's fine. Just, you know, coming by on a Friday night…."

"Yeah," he scoffed, "someone put you up to this. Forget it, okay? I'm too old for a babysitter." Booth started to close the door.

"Dude," Hodgins said, "you can't turn me away. I have expensive beer and movies where lots of shit blows up." He lifted the items held in each hand, and stepped past Booth into the apartment.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope." Hodgins plunked the bottles onto the counter. "Try it," he grinned. "You'll like it."

"No, I've got Parker tomorrow, I can't…" I can't stay up late and drink beer. While bonding with a squint?

"Sure you can." Hodgins was shrugging out of his coat, and tossed it over a chair. "Besides, Angela made it _very _clear I'd regret it, if I didn't do what she said."

"By coming over here?" Booth eyed him. "So, no sex for a week, huh?"

Hodgins gave up any pretense of pride. "Pretty much, yeah." He yanked one of the beer bottles free of the case, and spied an opener on Booth's shelf.

"She did try Cam first, but I guess the boss had some family thing she couldn't get out of. So I was recruited next." He cracked the top off one bottle, and reached for a second. "I think Brennan's the one who made Angela call in the first place. Because it sounds like the girls are camped out at Dr. B's place tonight. Having some kind of angry feminist powwow, or whatever they do together.

"So." He clapped his hands together. "Where's the DVD player?"

Booth hesitated.

"Come on, man. No touchy-feely stuff—I'm not Sweets. This is just two guys getting mildly drunk and ranting about crappy acting and awesome special effects."

**

Booth had to admit: Hodgins had picked a good bunch of guy movies. Sex and suspense, car chases and explosions.

They slouched on the couch with their beers, feet propped on cushions on the coffee table. Booth had discovered that Jack Hodgins was actually a fun guy to watch a movie with. If you didn't mind alternating between super-scientific critiques, and comments based solely on creative colloquialisms.

One minute he would say, "that guy is such a wank-tard," and the next, he would go off on some indecipherable squint lecture about the volume and composition of the chemicals in the on-screen explosion, and how it couldn't have been _that _impressive unless they'd added an accelerant.

Booth had given his own lecture about how certain plot events could never have occurred, given what he knew about different government and law enforcement agencies.

They'd also had a debate about which actor was the best James Bond, which villains were the best (or worst), and now they'd moved on to hottest Bond girls.

"Yeah," Hodgins said thoughtfully, "if I had to pick one favorite, it would be that scene with Ursula Andress. Water, bikini, tan skin… It's classic. Plus there's something kind of sweet and unselfconscious about the whole thing. It was the 60's, you know…"

Booth took a swig of beer, then started chuckling. "Ursula _Un_dress."

"Dude, that joke is older than you are."

"Watch who you're calling old, bug boy."

Hodgins held up his hands in protest. But he kept badgering Booth to reveal _his _favorite Bond girl. "Come on, you have to pick. I mean, you really can't go wrong—am I right?"

"Okay, okay. I'm gonna pick… Sophie Marceau. Those lips, those eyes, that accent…"

Hodgins laughed in a giddy, appreciative way. "Sign me up for French lessons."

They watched in silence for a while, then Hodgins said, "Okay, what about this: You ever do the old girlfriend review? It's kind of entertaining. You line them up in your head, right—first on the attractiveness scale, and then best sex. And, according to that non-rigorous scientific method, my lists don't always match. Still trying to figure out why."

Booth watched the screen with an almost meditative expression. "That's easy, it's how you felt about them."

"I _felt _a lot of things," Hodgins laughed, "believe me."

"Not just the sex," Booth said. "I mean… _them_. The person. The connection you had."

Hodgins seemed to mull it over.

"You put Angela on that list?"

"Nah. Not fair. Not part of the game. You don't include current girlfriends, just past ones. And if I'm lucky, I don't plan on her ever joining the 'past' column.

"So, you have those two lists?" Hodgins asked. "Do they match up?"

Booth started to think about it. First you put all former girlfriends in a room together… and see what fun you could have. For instance, would Rebecca go before or after that girl with the…

He stopped. Because even with Hodgins egging him on, even with a buzz from expensive beer, he could not do this. Ranking women on how good they were in bed? Not after today.

Not after Brennan, wearing her pink blouse and being accused of lying. Not after her silent tears and defiant tone, that told the attorney to go fuck himself.

Booth pulled his feet off the coffee table and let them hit the floor with a thump. Hodgins was still looking at him with mischief in his eyes, eager for highlights. But the grin faded at Booth's expression.

"I am not talking about that right now." He put his elbows on his knees and feigned focus on the TV screen.

"Oh… right. Sorry, man." Hodgins got the message pretty easily, that this was not appropriate.

Actually, his tone made Booth regret being so serious all of a sudden. It wasn't like this topic related directly to anything that had happened in court. But here was Hodgins giving him these careful glances, as if the guy knew...

Booth felt defensive, like he had to explain himself.

Bones is _not _my girlfriend. She will _not_ be in some fantasy line-up.

And yet, she already was. He'd realized it after one of those crazy dreams he'd had. The one that started as a harmless romp with Rebecca, but then Bones had been there, crying. Because _he'_dbeen the sexual aggressor.

Booth still sat leaning forward, his feet planted on the floor. Hodgins seemed engrossed in the movie, but Booth no longer cared.

Brennan _was _on a stupid list like the one they'd just talked about. The _amazing woman I want to sleep with but for various reasons never will _category.

Hell, Booth thought. She's not just _on _the list. She's at the top. She's the only one.

**

Brennan stood in the plain white shower of the gym's locker room. She was still too overheated to crank the water to steamy, as Angela had done in the next stall. Instead she turned slowly under the spray, letting it tattoo on her head and scalp. Letting it sheet down her back and legs. Bead on her arms, and sluice warmly over her breasts and belly.

Letting it wash away the sweat of her workout. Wash away the taint of criminal hands.

Because she could still feel every place they had touched her. The worst bruises, on her ribcage, lip and cheek. The pressure of fingers and nails, on her hips and forearms. Aggressive hands groping her breasts. Anders, sloppy and wet, pressing his tongue against her.

Brennan shivered, and shielded her face from the spray. She realized she'd just been standing there. The floral scent of Angela's shampoo drifted from the next shower, and suds swirled down the drain. She reached for her bottle of shower gel, squeezing some into her hands. Working it into a lather and sponging the foam over her skin. It smelled of apricots and coconut.

She realized that Booth might say she felt betrayed—by the evidence. Her faith in science was shaken. It was not indisputable; it had failed to condemn Anders.

Perhaps that melodrama on the stand today would help their suit, as Caroline claimed. But sentiment did not decide cases. Facts did.

She knew that the prosecution's forensic experts, whom Port was trying to discredit, were very capable. And she valued Caroline's skills in the legal arena. Anders _would _be convicted of something. But perhaps not everything.

Brennan would not sit by while others took apart the defense. They would come up with too many stories about the different characters in this play. _She _was interested in evidence. There had to be something that would tip the balance. Something irrefutable. Science _would _provide the answer.

Brennan let the water rinse the suds from her skin, and cast her mind over events from the hotel room. Rawling had worn hard-toed boots, and Anders had not. His softer shoes would not have been able to cause such serious injuries to her ribs. But that was not relevant to the question at hand.

More relevant: The forensics team had found a fingerprint on the toilet lever, from Anders flushing the condom. But it had been smeared and partial; no transfer of DNA. Not enough to identify him in court, nor to prove which man was the rapist.

Brennan exhaled loudly in the humid shower stall. Her thoughts were still heated, though she had pounded out her anger on the treadmill and the weight room.

This shouldn't be necessary. Anders is on trial for murder and drug running _and _rape. I never guessed the facts would come under fire.

But this _is_ necessary. So I will find a solution.

Brennan massaged her scalp with her fingers, rinsing traces of shampoo. Soapy water slid down her back, to eddy on the tile floor.

I will go to Caroline and demand to see all the documents. The evidence collected from the hotel room…and from me. They're _my _records, after all; I have a right to see them.

I will do what I would with any other case that reaches an obstacle. Return to the tangible facts, to the bones. I sit with them and study them, until I find something everyone else has missed.

**

**A/N: **This is what we crave, right? A thin slice of humor with Hodgins, sandwiched between hearty doses of B/B angst. Yum.

Booth's thoughts during the movie: Awww! It got all guilty and romantic again! I didn't quite intend it to go in that direction…but I don't think you mind. :)

Is this like a quota now, that someone says _fuck _each chapter—or at least thinks it. Between Booth and Angela last time, wasn't it two or three times? Heh. As long as it's not overkill.


	60. Chapter 60

**A/N**: Is anyone still alive and coherent after the 100th ep? If you are, please read and review. Thank you again, Amilyn, for reading passages and offering valuable suggestions.

**Part 60**

When the movie ended, Booth picked up the remote to check out some of the special features that Hodgins recommended. They'd both been rather quiet since Booth cut short the old girlfriend discussion. Now, as he clicked through the menu, Hodgins glanced over.

"So, um… the trial must've been kind of rough. If Angela's staying with Brennan, and threatening me to hang out with you?"

Booth was not going to elaborate about the trial. He just grunted assent.

"Angela said—she didn't give me any details, but that other lawyer—he accused Brennan of _lying_?" Hodgins sounded as incredulous as Bones had been.

"Yeah," Booth said. "You don't want to know." He pressed the remote to select the deleted scenes, and they watched for a few minutes.

"If something like that had happened to me…" Hodgins looked guarded, as if waiting for Booth to stop him—or toss him out of the apartment. "If it had been me and Angela… Knowing what was happening to her and not being able to do anything... I mean, fuck. I think I'd throw myself under a bus. Or go grovel at her feet, saying I wasn't worthy to lick her boots."

Booth didn't know how to respond. He could hardly pop Hodgins on the nose for speaking the truth. And he suddenly saw himself sitting on Bones' sofa, crying into her sweater.

"Yeah, I kind of did that. Groveling."

"Seriously?" Hodgins sat up, both from curiosity and to reach his beer on the coffee table. "What happened? What'd she say?"

"She…" Booth chuckled grimly. "I went to her apartment one night, all freaked out. And Bones… she slapped me. You know, just to get some sense into me. Then she sat me down, poured me a stiff drink, and… hugged me. She hugged me like I was five years old, and told me it was okay."

"Dude." Hodgins looked at him with those round blue eyes. "That's... Wow."

He couldn't say _what _it was, but Booth could guess. Horrible? Awesome? Really fucked up? And it was all of those things.

A tech feature came on next, about the special effects. Hodgins' eyes lit up as he listened to the explosives expert.

Booth was tuning it out. He was still seeing the courtroom, still hearing Brennan's testimony.

"You know what the worst thing was?" he said into the air. "I didn't realize how much she was worried about _me_, in that suite. When she had plenty of things to deal with on her own." Hodgins glanced at him in the flickering light of the TV screen, but Booth didn't look back.

All the different kinds of pain Bones had to occupy her brain…and she'd been conscious of _his._

"That's…" Hodgins searched for something to say. "That sounds like Dr. B, all right. But…you had the same thing going. I mean, you would've… She knows you would've done anything to those guys, to stop what happened."

Booth grunted again. He didn't need Hodgins reassuring him.

He leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to some man in a black beret talk about the miniature buildings he was having fun blowing up for the film.

Guilt, Booth thought—that was familiar. And grief, now, more than rage. He was just bone-weary.

He was tired of being pushed around. Pushed into that situation in the first place. Pushed onto the stand to testify. Pushed headfirst into all these emotions he couldn't get out of.

Caroline had been right, that their testimonies today could still be called summaries. They hadn't rehashed every sordid detail. But they'd said enough. They'd said things they hadn't wanted the other to know—not at that level of specific. But they'd _had _to say it, to get the conviction they craved. The conviction Anders deserved.

On screen, a stunt man was being interviewed. He talked about injuries he'd suffered in previous jobs—broken bones from some risky feat—and all Booth could think was, Bones.

Her concern for him… it was flattering, somehow. She'd been thinking about evidence, in that hotel room, to take her mind off the events. And she'd been thinking about him. He felt a kind of pride at her courage. And sorrow, that it was necessary.

**

After their gym workout, Angela stopped at her apartment to pick up a few things, then arrived at Brennan's door.

"Movies and ice cream," she announced. "I swear those things have healing properties. You know, along with love and friendship."

After a light meal, they settled onto the sofa. Brennan peered at the DVD box. "_Finding Nemo_?"

"Okay," Angela said, "So it's technically for kids, but I promise you'll like it. If _you _promise to suspend disbelief about the whole talking-fish premise. Just let yourself get swept up in the story, and maybe admire the computer animation while you're at it."

Brennan, of course, could not simply get wrapped up in the story. She was more interested in the ocean environment, the species of fish, and the portrayal of realistic swimming movements.

Angela countered with comments about the artists' rendering of human emotion on animal faces, and they had a lively discussion.

Their talk died down, and about halfway through, Angela glanced over to find Brennan looking reflective.

"The father…" She nodded at the clown fish on screen. "His concern and caution are certainly legitimate. He had firsthand knowledge of how dangerous the world can be, when his—can you say 'wife' if we're talking about fish?—when his partner and offspring were killed. He has a right to be cautious."

Angela would have smiled about the 'wife' comment, if she was not heartbroken over the rest. _Firsthand knowledge of danger. Family dying. Partners at risk._

She had decided not to say anything about the trial today. Let Bren lead the way, if she wanted to talk. And in fact, she did.

They had put away the ice cream and now lounged side by side, in their comfortable post-workout clothes. Angela glanced around the dark apartment. Little lights glinted on artifacts and picture frames on the shelves. In the kitchen, the fridge hummed as it regulated its temperature.

"I didn't know," Brennan said, "how much Booth was aware of. I mean, he was surprisingly lucid, despite the drug in his system."

Angela looked away from the cheery ocean-scape on the TV screen. Bren was staring straight ahead, seeing something else.

"But he still… he knew what had happened to me. How much my injuries hurt. I didn't think I was that… transparent."

"Maybe not to other people, Bren. But to people who love you…"

She looked at Angela this time, her eyebrows angling down. _Booth doesn't love me_, she would say skeptically.

But instead she went on. "He even knew that… I tried not to add to his worry. I tried not to make a sound while I was in there, because if I did… I didn't want to give the criminals the satisfaction, but also… Booth would hear."

Bren had hardly noticed when her friend pushed _stop _on the remote. Angela dearly wished there was a _stop _button on life. Pause, rewind, undo.

"But then, as soon as I came out, Booth just… knew." Bren looked down, pinching the edge of the seat cushion in her fingers.

She was clearly bothered that her attempts to protect him—from pain, from knowledge—had been that flimsy.

"Sweetie…" Angela felt like crying. Because Bren tried to be so stoic. Up against two twisted, dangerous felons, who hurt her in an unfair fight… And then to have Booth see that pain written all over her, as soon as she walked back in…

"It's like…" Brennan searched for a comparison. "Like being naked in front of someone." She glanced up. "I don't mean literally…"

"Emotionally," Angela nodded.

And it was _that _kind of intimacy that was so hard for her. It made her feel exposed.

Angela watched her face, lit with a blue glow from the TV screen.

Bren hadn't known until now, how different she had looked to Booth, coming out of that room. _Dazed_, he'd said. _Cautious, small_. She hadn't realized how much she'd let on, in the way she carried herself. Especially for someone like him, who was so good at reading people.

"But, sweetie…" Angela covered Bren's arm with her hand. "It's _Booth_. That means it's okay. Because you trust each other."

"We do, but…"

Angela saw the currents swirling behind her eyes, and offered, "Well, you both revealed a lot of stuff today, right? You knew the ways he was hurting, too. Things he hadn't told you. It's kind of balanced, in a way."

Bren considered that.

"I suppose you're right. But I just can't…" She trailed off, and Angela let her take the remote, rather than finish an uncomfortable sentence. They restarted the movie, trying to lose themselves in chirpy characters and undulating waves.

Angela pondered the rest of what Bren might have said. _I can't surrender like you can, and trust unconditionally. I can't accept being so emotionally bare, before Booth's perceptiveness._


	61. Chapter 61

**A/N: **Giant thanks to Amilyn, for going over this with me in exquisite detail, not once but twice. She also deserves credit for inspiring me about the contrast between Brennan and Angela's reactions in this section.

**Part 61**

When Brennan woke up the next morning, her brain contained the answer. She didn't even bother getting dressed before calling Caroline.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" the attorney groaned. "On a _Saturday_?"

"I know how to prove it," Brennan said. "That Anders, not Rawling, was the one who raped me."

**

In the guest room, Angela had woken up at what seemed like much too early an hour. She was about to roll over and go back to sleep, when she heard Brennan moving around the apartment—and talking to someone. Angela got up to see what was going on.

Wandering down the hall, she blinked sleepily. Bren stood by the dining table wearing a silky green robe. Angela shivered in her skimpy pajamas, wishing she'd brought something warmer, like her fuzzy slippers.

Bren was talking to Caroline about the case, but Angela could only greet her with a gravelly, "Coffee…"

Her friend gestured at two mugs on the counter, and Angela shuffled over to them. She stared at the coffee machine, where drips still percolated in the clear pitcher. It wasn't until the aroma roused her brain that she registered what Brennan was saying.

"The marks that their hands left on me—that's the additional evidence we need. I have sufficiently fair skin, that there were readily discernable bruises and scratches. You can use the hospital documentation photos to corroborate everything I said: that one man held my arms and the other held my hips.

"The key," Bren explained, "is that Anders and Rawling have very different hands, in terms of size and structure. I got a good look at them, and… the marks they each left would have been distinctive." She paused, listening to Caroline on the other end of the line.

Angela was now wide awake. She tried to pour coffee into the mugs as if nothing extraordinary was happening.

Yesterday, Bren had been upset with herself for not anticipating Port's tactics. "I should have thought," she'd said, "that he would question me, and the evidence. I should have asked Caroline; I should have examined the data myself, rather than just accepting."

Yesterday, she'd been too preoccupied with Booth's testimony to draw these conclusions. But her razor-sharp mind hadn't let her down. Science hadn't let her down.

Angela was not thinking science.

All she could think was, Oh, Sweetie. Oh, my God. _This _is the evidence you can use against them? The ways they hurt you and marked you?

Brennan was now talking about experts who could analyze the hospital photos. How they could compare the measurements of the documented bruises with measurements of Anders' hands. And Rawling's, for that matter, because his body was being kept in a morgue somewhere, as part of an ongoing investigation.

"Although that could pose a problem," she was saying, "the fact that his remains have been refrigerated for some time."

Caroline must have asked another question, and Bren replied, "Reasonably certain, yes. Rawling had very large, square hands, while Anders' were smaller, with tapered phalanges."

Angela took a sip of hot coffee, then jerked away as it burned her tongue. Tears came to her eyes, but they would have come anyway, without the coffee.

She had seen those bruises on Bren's forearms, after the assault. She'd actually been able to make out the impressions of fingers spanning her wrist, in purple bruises. Next to the rope burns and angry red scratches.

Bren was wrapping up her conversation. She sounded… proud. Victorious, even. It was one of those times she reminded Angela of a little kid, saying, _I did it! I found the answer. I'm smarter than you!_

Angela tried to ignore the tears that were now threatening to spill over. She went to the fridge to find breakfast food, selecting fruit and yogurt, then a box of cereal.

Bren had hung up, and came to the cupboard to get out bowls and glasses. She was still thinking aloud.

"It's actually beneficial that I got a close look at their hands. The different shapes—Rawling's more callused, like a solider, while Anders' lacked signs of stress, consistent with a businessman who lets other people do the hard work.

"Angela, you might know this—" Brennan had pulled spoons from a drawer, and now pointed them at her friend. "Or I could ask Cam—there must be some specialized foam material, like a small cylinder that Anders would have to grasp, to make an impression of his fingers. It wouldn't be hard to prove that his hands were _not _the ones holding my arms. They were too small to have left those bruises, but they _do _match the other ones, over the iliac crests."

Angela was crying. She could not stop it, but she turned so Brennan wouldn't see. She brought the cereal and bowls over to the table, and stayed there.

"I'm so used to dealing with _dead _people during cases," Bren said from the kitchen. "I don't often have access to living tissue and all the complications or opportunities it affords.

"I should call Booth," she announced. "Although he has Parker this weekend, he'll want to know—that we found a way to get Anders, like we knew we would."

Angela realized she must have made some sound, because Bren stopped, rather than heading for the phone.

"Ange?"

She didn't move, except that she had leaned her hands against the table, to keep herself upright. When she squeezed her eyes shut, tears overflowed.

"Angela…?" Brennan walked over, and took her friend by the shoulders to turn her. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head helplessly. Sniffed, and tried to wipe away the tears.

Bren stared at her with consternation.

"What's _wrong_," Angela said, "is _this_, Bren. This evidence."

"Is there a flaw in the data? Something I missed?"

"No," Angela wailed. "_Yes_." Now she touched Bren's shoulder. "Sweetie, don't call Booth. At least not right now."

"Why not? And why are you crying?" She looked ready to cry herself, with confusion.

Angela _really _didn't want to explain it to her. _If she's not feeling this, I do _not _want to spell it out. _

Bren was fiddling with the silk sash on her robe. Rewrapping it around her waist, then tying it into a tight, neat crisscross.

Angela knew that for her, ignorance was worse than bad news. Her own silence would cause anxiety, not comfort.

Bren still tried to reason with her. "We have another piece of evidence to strengthen the case and convict Anders. You—and Booth—should be happy."

Angela blinked away the tears. Slowly, she shook her head. "No, Bren. He's not going to be happy."

"But…"

"Booth is going to think the same thing I did. How this is…"

Angela glanced down at the white bowls resting on the wooden table. "This is about those criminals, _marking _you. I mean, your skin, and your memory—and to think of all those things that are going to be on display in the courtroom… These hospital photos blown up really big, in front of everyone, in front of that sick man…" Her voice broke, and she looked down again.

Bren reached out and took her hand, pulling it into the space between them. She held out her own arm, turning the palm up, then down. "Look," she said. "Everything is healed. The marks are gone."

Brennan, Angela thought. Literal Brennan, trying to comfort _me_.

"Yeah…" her voice quavered. "Maybe the physical part, but…"

Bren's hand came up as if to stop her words. Her eyes shimmered with acknowledgment of truth, but the hardness of her mouth looked like denial.

"Sweetie." Angela still held onto her hand. "I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want to act like this! I'm such a… I'm too weak, I'm not…"

"Ange, don't say that. You're a very good friend."

"But… I didn't ruin this for you? I didn't make you unhappy about finding the evidence?"

"No, you didn't. I'm just relieved that we have solid, measurable data, to reinforce the truth.

"Of course I see that it's… unfortunate. But rather fitting, too. I hate—" Bren's teeth were set with resolve. "I hate that they ever touched me. And it still makes me—" she stopped. "But I don't focus on that. I focus on the tangible proof. And that's what their… disgusting touch gives us. Evidence that we can use _against _them."

"Right," Angela said, trying to match her toughness. "That's right."

Bren still looked worried. She surveyed Angela's tear-stained face, her shorts and tank top, and said, "Come with me."

She led her down the hall, and handed her a box of Kleenex from the bathroom. Then she ducked into her closet, and retrieved a flannel robe.

"Thank you, Sweetie." Angela pulled it around her shoulders, and blew her nose with the tissue.

"Should we have breakfast?" Bren suggested.

They went back to the kitchen to resume a normal routine.

At the table, they mixed up granola and yogurt parfaits, topped with fruit and nuts. Bren had turned on the radio, and they listened to the public news station while they ate.

Angela swallowed the last bite of granola, then put down her spoon.

"I want to know how you do it," she said. "You know, not instantly _feeling _everything. And I'm _glad _you don't instantly feel it, because… How do you do that, Bren? I want to understand."

"I…" She frowned. "I just do. It's not something I have to work at. I simply focus on what I know. Evidence. Anatomy. Cause and effect. And usually, it makes me feel better."

"But," Angela said, "not always?"

"Well…" Bren moved her bowl to one side. She pressed her back against the chair and rested her hands on the edge of the table. "When they took those photos at the hospital… You know they hold a ruler up against you, for scale. One of those black and white checked ones, that look just like the kind we use in archeology. When we're photographing ancient remains, or artifacts like stone tools or pottery. So… that felt better, to me. Everyone was following standard procedure, and securing documentation. It was… science. I mean, I had to take my clothes off, and I was hurting, and the lights were extremely bright… But it was less me as… a victim. I was more like an artifact. We merely had to document the marks left by various processes.

"And maybe Sweets would call that a coping mechanism," she said impatiently. "Some sort of distancing strategy. But—"

"But psychology is crap, and we both know you hate it." Angela tried a small smile, and Brennan nodded agreement.

Then she looked away, suddenly much more tense. "I'm not… I won't call Booth." She glanced at Angela for a reaction. "I don't want him to… I don't know if I can talk to him now. And it's his weekend with Parker; I don't want to spoil that."

"Do you," Angela spoke a little tremulously, "want _me _to call Booth? Break it to him gently?"

"No... I don't know. Maybe we should let Caroline do it. It will be more… businesslike, that way."

Brennan gathered the bowls from the table, and took them into the kitchen.

Angela stood up too, reaching for the cereal box. But she paused, watching Brennan's back as she rinsed things at the sink. The green silk robe draping her curves. Her still un-brushed hair down around her shoulders.

Science, Angela thought. That's like a buffer for you, and I'm very glad for it. But Booth and I don't have a buffer.

And maybe yours doesn't work as well as you want it to.

Bren reached for a dishtowel on a hook above her, and Angela saw her shoulder blades shifting. Her muscles tight, under that soft silk.


	62. Chapter 62

**A/N: **I thought I might skip ahead to whatever's happening with B/B at work on Monday, but you know what? They really wanted more weekend. With each other. So of course, I let them.

**Part 62**

Booth called Brennan on Sunday morning.

"Hi, Bones. I'm going to put Parker on, okay? He has a science question for you. And yes…" Booth feigned weariness, "I could just read him a definition, but I'd probably get it wrong trying to explain, and you'd have to correct me anyway. So this saves us some time, right?"

He could hear a faint smile in her voice when she answered. "I can appreciate your reasoning."

Booth gave Parker the phone, and leaned close to hear the conversation. "Bones? What's—Daddy, say it again. Taphonomy?"

"Well," she said, "it means the study of what happens to remains after a person or animal has died. How its soft tissues decompose, and whether it is buried or fossilized. In terms of bones, for example…" Brennan was warming to her subject. "They could have ended up at the bottom of a river, and been scraped against rocks by the current. Or they could have teeth marks from a carnivore gnawing on them. Or humans might have made marks on them, whether for artwork or practical use. Taphonomy is the study of all those marks and processes, and how they came to be there."

"Oh," Parker said. "You can make art out of bones?"

"Yes." Brennan explained about carvings shaped from ivory tusks, images etched onto surfaces, or flutes made out of hollow long bones.

Parker asked a few more questions, then gave the phone back to his father.

"Say thank you, Parker."

"Thanks, Bones!"

"They're starting them kind of young on these science projects," Booth commented, "so some of the library books were over his head. But we still had fun burying our bones in the dirt, didn't we buddy?" He ruffled his son's hair, then watched him dash off to his room on some mission or other.

"Hey, Parker," he called, "it's time to get ready for church.

"The project was kind of simplistic," he said to Brennan, "but it's still going to be way better than a lot of the other kids'. Unless their parents did the whole thing for them.

"So, Bones… How's your weekend going?"

She hesitated for what seemed like a long time. "Angela came over, and… I thought of something else that we can use against Anders, to uphold the truth of our story."

"Oh, that's great, Bones. What is it?"

Silence.

Then, haltingly, "Caroline will tell you. She's going to call, later."

He didn't like what he was hearing in her voice. It sounded like fear of his reaction. And it somehow reminded him of the way she'd looked right after the assault. Pain slowing her movements, her eyes dazed and avoidant.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, just…" She sighed. "Angela said you wouldn't like it. I'm sorry, I have to go now, but Caroline will call you later today." Her voice had sped up; she was making excuses.

"Bones, wait. I don't—"

"You have to get to church, I won't keep you."

"No, it's fine. Listen, Bones, whatever it is…" His voice went softer and lower. "Just talk to me."

"I can't," she said heavily. "After the trial, and Angela, and telling Caroline… I'm just… I'm all talked out."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When Booth returned to his apartment after dropping Parker back with his mother, Caroline had left him a message. He called her right away.

"New evidence?" he demanded.

"Yes… Now, listen, cher—your son's not with you anymore, right?"

"No," he said, "I just took him back—"

"Are you around any other children or small animals, who could be frightened by—"

"Caroline, just tell me what the hell is going on."

She sighed, and told him.

He stood very still, while the summary churned around his ears like contaminated flood water. Criminal hands. The different sizes. Hospital photos. Finger marks.

Caroline was nothing if not direct. But even she stumbled, trying to explain what Brennan had said.

"The marks won't match, you know, because Rawling was the one holding her arms, while Anders… was behind her, holding her hips."

Booth stared very hard at a threadbare patch on the living room carpet, to avoid seeing anything else.

"_Well_—" Caroline changed the subject with unnecessary vigor. "I'm just glad your genius scientist realized the significance. Because I was sitting here all depressed, looking at the case file and cursing the other lawyer, but then Dr. Brennan called, and it all clicked in my mind.

"I might not have the training to have thought of all this," Caroline went on, "but I can sure as hell make use of it. And it's not just an empirical comparison; it's another thing that can get the jury right in the gut—and another nail in Anders' coffin. Well, his conviction, anyway."

Booth finally managed to speak. "When did Bones notice all this? How?"

"I asked her the same thing," the attorney said. "She got a look at Rawling's hands when he was holding her down in that other room. And she got a look at Anders when they brought her back, and he tied her to the table. I guess she was…well, you know. In shock at that point. Just staring, and letting him do it."

Still, Booth thought, her dutiful brain had stored the information for future reference. I shouldn't even ask anymore, how she notices. This is Bones. Of course she does.

Caroline was still talking, and he grunted responses as she wrapped up the conversation.

Booth put down the phone. He balled up his fist, and nearly punched a hole in the wall. The only thing that stopped him was Bones. Realizing he would have to explain, the next time he saw her, how he had bruised or broken his metacarpal bones. _The thought of those men putting their hands on you… it made me put my hand through the wall._

So he hit the sofa instead. Leaning over to pummel its padding, his face screwed up in knots.

It was not nearly good enough. His fist rebounded frustratingly from the cushions. When he hit things, they were supposed to _stay down_.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

After that, Booth went for a long, hard run.

He had returned and was finishing dinner before he admitted it to himself: He had this desperate desire to see Bones. To hug her, to look her in the eye, and see her unmarked skin.

Because, if he couldn't run straight to the prison and kill Anders with his bare hands, that was the next best thing.

Then, remarkably, she appeared at his door.

A drizzle had started at the end of his run, and he answered the bell to find Bones in his hallway, drops of water misting her coat and hair.

He said, "Come in."

He wanted to take her coat, but she made no move to shrug out of it. She stood with her hands in her pockets, and studied him.

"Booth…" Her eyes asked questions, while begging him not to ask any of his own. "Caroline told you?"

He nodded.

"I just wanted to… Angela thought… Are you okay?"

Damn, she was too much. Worrying about _him_, again.

Sure, he wanted to lie. I'm fine. No problem. It's just the thought of those men leaving bruises on you. Not just on your arms, but… on your hips, intimately, right there. And all of that will be on display in a courtroom. Stark, large-scale photos. Like a victim. Like an object.

Booth didn't speak. His body moved of its own accord, going right up and wrapping his arms around her, wet coat and all.

Brennan's chin came to rest on his shoulder. He pressed his cheek against her hair, and she smelled of citrus and salt and rain.

As much as he wanted to, he didn't linger. She had stiffened at his touch, but after a second, hugged him back.

He stepped away and apologized, awkwardly. For not asking, for taking the liberty.

Bones untied the belt of her coat, and told him, matter-of-factly, "You can take more liberties—you and Angela—than I'd allow with anyone else."

That was one of the best things she could have said.

Booth offered her a drink, but they both decided on hot chocolate rather than alcohol.

He hung up Brennan's coat, and started water heating on the stove.

"But," she said, "if I stay for a while…" She stood by the kitchen window, one hand leaning on the back of a chair. "I don't want to talk. I just want to… exist. With you."

He had to smile at that one.

"And…" Her eyes were troubled, but still fixed on him keenly, from across the room. "If you could… not look at me again, the way…"

He knew exactly what she meant. Not look at her, and see the injuries.

"Yeah, Bones," he said softly. "I think I can do that."

He checked the burner on the stove, then glanced down at his attire of jeans and a t-shirt. "Hey," he said, "did we plan this, or what? We match." Bones glanced at her own jeans and t-shirt. They'd both chosen a similar hue: her shirt navy, his gray-blue.

Brennan gave him a little smile, but still stood uneasily by the table. "Maybe I should have called first. But I just wanted to make sure you were… Because Angela—she started crying when she heard about the evidence. And I thought, if it had that effect on _her_…"

"It's okay, Bones. It's fine. And we don't have to talk. We can just… hang out. And drink warm liquid sugar, right?"

The kettle was whistling on the stove, and he poured the water into two mugs. "Parker can get a sugar high off this stuff in about two seconds flat." Booth nodded at the canister of hot chocolate mix on the counter.

Bones, predictably, chimed in with an anecdote about the history of that beverage. "In Aztec society, cocoa beans were valued as currency, as well as for their culinary importance. They would be given as gifts during ceremonies and festivals. And the drink, made from roasted cocoa beans, was not sweet like this. It would be served cold, and flavored with wine and chili peppers."

Booth handed her a steaming mug. "Wine and chili peppers, huh?" He raised his eyebrows. "You want any of that in yours?"

He was glad he could still pull off the joking—that Caroline's call hadn't totally killed his ability. And Brennan's expression, a sort of fond annoyance, was worth it.

Neither of them felt like zoning out with TV; they'd each had enough movie-watching on Friday. Instead, they sat at the table by the window. Booth told Bones more about Parker's science project, and she flipped through the library books they'd referenced.

Then they divided up the Sunday newspaper to peruse, because it felt too odd with no distraction. Neither of them seemed quite comfortable in each other's presence, but neither seemed willing to part ways, either.

Booth sipped his hot chocolate. He turned his chair to lean back against the wall, and skimmed the sports section.

Bones had the science news spread out in front of her, her arms resting on the table. He looked at her arms: slender, bare. No bruises. No band-aid on her elbow, because the cut, from tripping Grever in the alley, had healed.

Occasionally she would glance up from the paper to relate some science fact she thought he should know. Or she would look out the window, watching droplets of rain glittering in the streetlights. Tree branches swayed against a dark sky, and water trickled in runnels down the windowpane.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth got up to bring their empty mugs over to the sink. When he sank back into his chair, he groaned, "This trial is only half over? Why does it seem to be taking so damn long?"

He thought Bones might chastise him for talking about what they'd agreed not to talk about. But she said, "I have noticed that my subjective experience of time can vary according to the situation."

Then she seemed to straighten her shoulders. "I haven't thanked you, for standing up for me in court."

"You're welcome, Bones." He waited to see if she'd continue.

"It meant a lot to me. Because…" Her gaze went unfocused, as if she didn't have words for the _because_.

She let it go, and observed, "You seemed angriest at Anders' lawyer. I was angry at him too, but… Anger toward Port serves no purpose. Rationally, I should thank him."

"For being an idiot, and creating more jury sympathy?"

"Well, Caroline thinks so. But," she corrected, "for making sure Anders was well-defended. His lawyer tried every path, so when Anders is convicted, it will be solid, with no grounds for appeal."

Booth sighed. "You're right. But, the lawyer's tactics… that doesn't mean they didn't hurt."

Bones looked away from him. She still rested her arms on the table, and Booth noticed faint shadows on her skin. Little streaks and blots, where the outside streetlight shone through the rainy windowpane.

"Well…" He tried for a gruff sort of humor. "Anders and his lawyer? I still say that you and me, we go beat up the both of them."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**Sources**: To double check my memory of taphonomy: wikipedia; and hooper museum dot earthsci dot Carleton dot ca/ taphonomy/ .

And for Brennan's know-it-all bit about hot chocolate history, About dot com.


	63. Chapter 63

**A/N: **Many thanks to Amilyn for giving this the once-over, with both professional editing and fangirl comments. And for pointing out, with an appalling number of relevant web articles, the anthropological comparisons that Brennan makes here.

**Part 63**

Once Brennan had read the majority of newspaper articles, she decided it was time to go home. Booth preceded her to the door to get her coat.

He didn't hand it to her, but held it open, and she belatedly realized he meant to place it over her shoulders. They had an awkward moment when she started to turn around to let him, and he started to give it to her instead. But then she was sliding her arms into the sleeves while he held it, and he settled it over her shoulders.

The collar now trapped her hair uncomfortably against her neck, but before Brennan could fix it, Booth did. He gathered her hair in gentle hands, his fingers brushing her neck. Lifting it free of her collar, he let it spread back around her shoulders.

She could hardly remember anyone helping her with her coat. Perhaps her father, when she was little. Or her old professor, Michael Stires, when they had gone to an elegant restaurant. But then, the gesture had seemed patronizing and outdated.

Now, it was not. Because this was Booth. And she simply felt… cared for.

She turned around, slowly, suddenly afraid to look him in the eye.

If she didn't have to be at the lab early the next morning… And if the trial hadn't been so fresh in her mind… Brennan might have reacted differently.

She might have turned confidently to face him. She might have shrugged off the coat. And then done whatever she could to encourage his hands back on her hair, on her neck.

But in that courtroom, they had laid themselves bare. And Brennan wasn't ready for anything else.

So she took refuge in an old standby.

As she buttoned her coat, she said, "It's a little ironic, isn't it?—that I was telling Parker about marks on bone, and before that, telling Caroline about soft tissue marks as evidence."

Booth had been looking at her with a sort of softness in his eyes, but her comment shocked it away. His expression was almost horrified.

"I mean," she tried to say something positive, "I'm just glad we _do _have evidence. And I'm glad to be living in this century, in this country. Because of our legal system and our forensics, which strive for fairness and sophistication. We can be reasonably sure Anders _will _be convicted of something; he is not getting away. Whereas, for literally thousands of years, and across many cultures, men would rape and mistreat women with impunity. In fact—" She was revving up to a rant, her voice rising.

Although Booth still looked appalled, she hurried to make her point.

"In some cultures, a rapist would be 'punished' by having to marry the woman he assaulted. That way, he would be responsible for feeding and sheltering her—which no one else would do, because society now viewed her as unmarriageable, once her virtue was damaged."

Booth stared, while Bones lectured. She was holding onto the sides of her half-open coat, eyes fiery with outrage. Whatever gratitude she had seemed about to express had been burned up by injustice.

When she paused for breath, he tried to stop her; to ask where she was going with this.

"…because society now viewed her as unmarriageable, once her virtue was damaged."

"Bones—"

But she wasn't ready to stop. "And this is still going on! There have been recent cases in India where a rapist will strike some kind of compromise with the victim's family, sometimes by marrying the woman, or by offering a monetary settlement, and thus escaping punishment."

"Bones," he tried again. "This—is awful, yeah. But… it somehow makes you feel better?" His voice squeaked like a teenager's.

"Yes, it does. Because—as inexcusable as these crimes are, _I_ get justice. Anders will be convicted of something. Perhaps not every charge, but he will be punished. I'm lucky in that regard—when others are not so fortunate."

Booth's anger had been lying dormant, but now it ballooned outward, a tangible pressure in his head and chest.

After everything that happened, Bones—you can call yourself _lucky_? Anders and Rawling treated you like dirt. The same way men from other countries saw the women they assaulted. Like an object to be used.

He turned, and slammed the heel of his hand into the wall.

Bones looked startled, but otherwise undeterred.

"That," she said in a hard voice, "is exactly how I feel, when contemplating the entire shameful history of people in power treating other people like chattel. With no regard for their mental or physical well-being."

Then, without missing a beat, "Did you hurt your hand?"

"No," he said, although it still throbbed with the impact. "Not really." Brennan glanced doubtfully at his hand, and back to his face.

He must have looked like he was in pain. And he was.

He still didn't understand what was so comforting about the legal system's sluggish justice.

Before he could say anything else, it was Brennan's turn to look horrified.

"I did it again." She was shaking her head, sounding cold and disgusted. "Just like with Angela. I went back to the anthropology or the science, without considering the effect on people—on your emotions. Because I don't feel them right away, but… Now we're both upset again, and maybe I ruined the evening—when we weren't even supposed to be talking about the trial, and—I've hurt you somehow."

"Bones, shh…" He stepped forward and took both her hands in his. She was biting her lip, her eyes shiny; afraid she'd done something wrong but not fully understanding what it was.

"_You _didn't hurt me, okay? The information did. The criminals did. The state of the whole fucking world."

Bones hesitated before speaking. "That is extremely imprecise." But she seemed to welcome his reassurance, and they both managed a wry smile.

Booth gave her hands a quick squeeze before letting go. "And you didn't ruin anything. I know you're just… putting things in context like you do. Anthropology, patterns, change versus stasis, right?"

She nodded, but he still had the sense he was missing some crucial piece. Exhaling a bit unsteadily, Brennan said, "I'm sorry. Angela… she recently demonstrated how I think about science first, and emotions only later. But she—and you—think about them right away. _Feel _them right away."

Bones still had that heartbreaking look on her face. The one he'd seen hints of, whenever she mentioned the foster system, or her parents' disappearance. The one that said, _There's something wrong with me. Something broken. _

"I think," Booth said quietly, "things hit you right away. But you don't let yourself feel, until later." He attempted another smile. "You're pretty tough on the outside. But, trust me—underneath, you're just as squishy as me or Angela."

Bones tried to look skeptical, but was drinking in his words. Then she said, "Except for our skeletons, that's true of everyone.

"And speaking of which…" She reached out. "I should take a look at your hand, just in case."

He raised his arm, and let her take it.

Brennan stood sideways to him, to better examine his hand. Her fingers pressed on his palm, where he'd hit the wall. Then they probed the back of his hand and wrist, carefully manipulating.

This is our kind of fair trade, Booth thought. As if Bones wanted to repay him: her skills in the physical plane, for his in the emotional one.

They were still standing in the hallway by his coat closet, and Bones still wore her jacket. Behind her, the kitchen window glowed with gold and silver raindrops.

Booth watched her hands, and her face. She had done this once before, in his apartment. A little less clinical, that time: touching his hands and studying them. After he'd held her arm in a merciless grip—to conquer flashbacks, and anchor her.

Brennan now flexed his wrist forward and back, fingers palpating the motion of the joint. Her eyes were focused, with a fine line between her brows. Her hands felt warm and gentle.

"Tell me if anything hurts," she said.

Booth wanted to hug her again.

No, Bones. That's not what hurts.

He watched her for another moment, as she finished her examination. "So, what's the prognosis, doc?"

Brennan released his hand with a little pat. "It might be sore for a couple days, but there's no lasting damage. As long as you don't make a habit of that." She frowned toward the wall he had struck.

"Don't worry. I've learned my lesson, Bones, before now. If I'm going to beat something, I wear gloves. I make sure it's a soft, inanimate object." He gave her a self-deprecating smile, wondering if she recalled the same thing he did: his knuckles scraped raw from bouts with a punching bag, that first week after it happened.

Brennan looked very solemn. "Yes," she said. "I have learned that lesson too."


	64. Chapter 64

**Part 64**

Booth stood next to Brennan in one of the FBI viewing rooms. On the other side of the glass, Anders was about to have his hands subjected to detailed examination by Caroline's forensics expert.

The man looked like one of Bones' squints. Glasses, a neat beard, and an unwaveringly serious expression. He stood by the table, opening a case of instruments: rulers, calipers, hi-tech foam things. A laptop and scanner device.

Caroline was there, as was Anders' lawyer. The two of them were arguing about whether they would have Anders squeeze one of the foam tubes in court, for the benefit of the jury. It would be a demonstration of scientific methods, Caroline said. No, Port countered, it would constitute unnecessary theatrics.

Booth glanced at Brennan, in silhouette against the black wall of the viewing room. Her face was tight with anger, and the strain of seeing her attacker again. But there was a certain satisfaction, at this poetic justice.

Because now, Booth thought, Anders is the one subjected to examination. After we put ourselves up on the stand last week. He has to present a part of _his _body as evidence. Just like Bones has to be objectified, with photos of her injuries displayed in the courtroom.

Now Anders placed his palm on the scanner. The expert fiddled with buttons on the side of it, watching his laptop screen. When he seemed satisfied with whatever he was seeing, he took a foam cylinder out of the case. Anders had to squeeze it, so that it retained the shape of his grip.

Booth wondered if that foam device was the exact diameter of Brennan's wrist. Knowing her, she would have told Caroline the test would have the greatest efficacy, with such attention to detail.

The forensics guy now removed more tools and calipers from the case, so he could measure Anders' hands, including the fingernails. Caroline could use the data to show which man had left which blemishes on Brennan's body.

She had worn long sleeves for a week, after the assault. But Booth had seen the marks.

They both turned away from the window before the examination was over.

Angela had been watching quietly from the door. She had come with Brennan for moral support, but it looked like she was the one in need of support. The way she was holding her arms crossed over herself, Booth guessed she wanted to start crying, or maybe throw up.

Before anyone could say anything, Sweets barged in. "I just heard! The new evidence—Anders is in there, getting—" He peered past them to where Anders was being measured. "This was your idea?" he said to Brennan. "It's just—genius, and—totally messed up. You two…" Now he fixed them with his earnest gaze. "Are you okay?"

Booth stole a glance at his partner. He grunted, "Not now, Sweets."

Bones didn't want to look at either of them, but tried to be forthright, as usual.

"Booth, it's fine." Then to Sweets, "We're fine."

The kid glanced between the two of them, clearly thinking, _that's bull_.

But Booth upheld her bluff. "Yeah, business as usual, Sweets. Come on, back to work."

Sweets opened his mouth again, but Angela rescued them. "Um, I was meaning to ask you," she said to the psychologist. "Can we talk for a second? It's really important." She took his arm in a needy grip, and actually hauled him through the doorway. Sweets gave them one more inquisitive look, before letting Angela drag him out.

Booth had switched off the speaker into the other room, so he and Bones now stood in silence. She glanced back through the glass, where Anders still held up his hands with an irritated expression, while the forensics guy tinkered.

For another moment, Booth watched her observe the criminal's hands.

She'd hardly said a thing since she'd arrived. She had not expressed interest in the computer equipment. She had not demanded access to the expert's findings.

When he couldn't stomach it any longer, Booth stepped between Brennan and the glass. She looked up as if surprised to find him there.

"Let's go, Bones. Let's get out of here."

Her eyes took a second to focus on him, but then she nodded wholeheartedly.

They went out into the hall. He was about to invite her to lunch at the diner, but she told him she would wait for Angela, so the two of them could return to the lab together.

They walked down the corridor to a staff lounge, one with a kitchen and coffee maker in the corner of the room. No one else was there.

Booth didn't feel like coffee, so he went to stand in front of the window. This side of the building faced away from the Mall and monuments, so the only things to see were drab city buildings and streets.

Brennan stood by the coffee table, cocking her head to read the titles of magazines arranged on its surface. She was wearing an off-white jacket buttoned over a red shirt. Perhaps the same red shirt he had ogled during that flight back from Texas.

Booth stared out at the gray cityscape. The thin trees caged along the sidewalk, the endless rows of cars.

"Bones…" He turned back to face her. "Let's go away somewhere. Let's just leave—separately or together. We're hardly needed this week; the Bureau doesn't expect us to be that useful until the trial's over. So let's go. Take a vacation for a few days." He felt a little grin tug at his mouth.

She looked surprised, but not averse to the idea.

"Let's ditch the city," he pressed on, "what do you say? Go out somewhere away from all this." He waved his arm to encompass the Bureau lounge where they stood, and the urban environment outside. "Somewhere you can really breathe, and hike, and sleep under the stars."

"Camping?" Brennan's lip curled with distaste. "It's too cold for that."

"No, it's not. Not with the proper gear. And it's been pretty warm lately. I bet there won't even be snow in some of the higher elevations."

"You already have a place in mind?"

He shrugged and cocked an eyebrow. "Want to help me research it?"

Bones didn't say yes, but she didn't shoot him down, either. Her gaze drifted back to the coffee table, then she dropped into one of the chairs. Booth hadn't realized, until she did that, how tired she looked. Something beyond just physical fatigue.

"Maybe," she answered. "But if we're going somewhere… there's a lot to do first. I still have bone analyses and articles to finish, although I could take a few journals along to read…"

"Bones." He put a friendly warning into his tone. "The definition of vacation means getting _away _from work."

"I know, but I still have to stay up to date with…" She looked up and saw him smile. Instead of smiling back, she sighed, and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. It was gathered into a knot at the back of her head, with a few strands framing her face.

"I suppose Zack can handle the Limbo cases for a few days. And… I never got to go on that dig in Portugal… It would be good to get away." She met his eyes. "It's a good idea."

Booth came over and put his hands on the back of the other chair. "But?"

"But I don't…" Brennan looked like she was trying to explain it to herself as much as him. "I don't have the energy for anything more than the status quo. I have to get back to the lab, and arrange things with Cam, and decide what to pack, and…" She realized something. "Can _you _leave this week? Your current caseload…?"

"Yeah, I have some cases. Actually more than last week; I guess this weekend was a popular one for crime. But none of them were a hundred percent my responsibility—they're more a team effort. That means I can dump them off on someone else. It's no big deal.

"So…" Booth was suddenly unsure how to proceed. They hadn't actually decided if they'd be traveling together. "Should we start looking for appealing locations?" He gestured down the hall toward his office.

Once Bones had made a decision, he expected her to get right on it. She would march over to his computer and begin investigating: national park websites, hiking maps, campgrounds or lodges that she would call to demand information. But she didn't.

She said, "I'll go where you're going."

It surprised both of them. Booth eyed her curiously, but she simply shrugged. Sitting in the worn lounge chair, her skin looking too pale over the strip of red shirt revealed by that jacket. She would actually give over control and decision-making, to him.

"I trust you to pick a suitable location. Just not _too _out in the wilderness." Brennan picked up a travel magazine with a rustic lodge pictured on the cover. "Because I might rather stay in a hotel with room service and a hot tub. But right now..." She slapped the magazine back on the table. "I don't care. Just somewhere..."

She glanced involuntarily down the hall, toward the room where they'd watched Anders. "Somewhere that's not here."

**A/N: **I am totally with Brennan right now. Tired of all the same daily stuff and needing a break. So, I'm giving the characters one.


	65. Chapter 65

**A/N: **I have been working on this story, every week, for ONE YEAR. Hard to believe, huh? Thank you to everyone who's reading, especially those who have been here since the beginning. Now, what's my anniversary present? :)

**Part 65**

The partners returned to their respective offices for lunch. Brennan had driven back to the lab with Angela, but once there, her friend disappeared for a short time. Probably to a private corner with Hodgins, for what she would call an "afternoon delight."

But then she arrived in Brennan's office, looking somber rather than glowing.

"Ange?" She put the science journal down on the sofa next to her. Angela was twisting her hands together nervously, and Brennan had to gesture at the couch before she would sit down.

"Sweets thought it would make me feel better if I told you," Angela said. "And I told him I would, as long as it didn't make _you _feel worse…"

Brennan was trying to catch up. "You did have something to discuss with Sweets? I thought perhaps it was a ruse. Isn't that a tactic you or Booth might use? Distracting him, so he would leave us alone?"

She thought her analysis of motives was insightful, but Angela's mouth curved in a tiny smile.

"You're very cute when you're trying to be devious. No, I really did want to talk to him. Because…" The smile vanished, and she took a deep breath. "Today, with the new evidence, the hand-measuring-foam-squeezie thing… And last week at the trial, I was just so… I had to go off crying in the bathroom after your testimonies, did you know that?"

Brennan shook her head, frowning at Angela's disclosure.

The artist was toying with her necklace, several strands of silver wound together. "There I was, crying again on Saturday when you called Caroline, and wanting to start bawling today, watching that—_man_—get measured so that we can prove what he did…"

She took an unsteady breath. Clearly upset, almost on the verge of tears again—but this time, Brennan saw more anger than sorrow. If she's not mad at me… and not even at Anders, Brennan concluded, she must be angry at herself.

"All this time I've been thinking…" Angela shook her head, and now the sorrow was back. "I'm failing you, Bren. By not being able to take it. I mean, if—" she bit her lip, stammering a little. "If you can stand to go through it, the assault, and the trial, and everything… Then I can stand to _hear _it.

"Because, my backing away from something that…" Angela moved to touch Brennan's arm. "It's like I'm backing away from _you_. As much as I hate what happened, as much as you hate it—it's a part of you, now. And I have to…" Her mouth trembled, then stilled. The lines of her face became more firm, yet more tender. "I embrace all parts of you."

Brennan looked at her friend's dark eyes, the way they glistened, and felt incredibly lucky. Miserable and grateful; to be accepted, to be worried about.

She leaned forward instinctively, into the hug. Her arms went around Angela's back and over her long hair, while her own shoulders were encircled in a tight squeeze.

Angela's hair smelled of exotic blossoms. Her clothes imparted scents of paint, canvas, and clay. It reminded Brennan of her friend's apartment, and the corner devoted to her art studio. Sometimes she would watch her work, amazed at the way paper, ink, or acrylic could conjure any number of scenes, under her friend's skilled hands.

They pulled back after a moment, Angela sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"I don't want you to feel inadequate," Brennan said. "Because you're absolutely not. And I don't want you to have to change anything in your own life. It's not right that you should be hurt by this, too. It shouldn't affect anyone but me. And Booth, because he was there."

Angela gave her the gentle look that told her, once again, she had missed the point.

"Other people are going to be affected, Bren. Because… we love you."

Brennan blinked and glanced down. The pattern of Angela's dress looked like watercolor brush strokes, in green and black.

"I can't help but be affected," she continued, "because you're my best friend. And other people… Booth of course, but Caroline, Cam, Hodgins… We're all going to be influenced. Because this is a big deal. And because we care."

Now Angela shifted her tone, sounding like a wise older sister sharing advice. "That's just how it works. Nothing exists in isolation, right? Not in nature, and not with people."

Brennan nodded, managing a smile. But Angela looked troubled again, sitting up straighter as though preparing herself for something.

"Look, I wanted to offer… I know Caroline's presenting the last evidence today and then wrapping up the case. And then Anders' lawyer gets to make his case for the defense…"

Brennan waited, while Angela steeled herself.

"I could go to the trial," she said. "You know, sit in on it, and then report back. So you'd be totally in the loop, if that's what you want. I could give you my view—for whatever it's worth—on how good a job everyone is doing, with the evidence, the witnesses, everything. Because I know it's hard for you to let other people take over, and not be involved in the process."

"Ange…" Brennan didn't know what to say. "But... You have work to do here."

"It's been pretty slow lately. No big awful murders to solve, no hectic museum exhibits with fast-approaching deadlines. I'm sure I could take a good chunk of my day to go sit in the audience."

It sounded like she was trying to convince herself, with those words. And Brennan realized how brave her friend was being. Volunteering that much of her time, for something that promised to be very unpleasant? If she had cried after the testimonies, how would she feel listening to the attorney tear down Caroline's case, and defend Anders' character?

"It's still too much," Brennan said. "I don't want you to… You don't have to do that for me, Ange."

Perhaps her eyes would convey what her words could not. _I don't want you exposed to that. I don't want you feeling any more sympathy pain than you already have._

Somehow, Angela understood; she looked ready to hug her again. But Brennan retreated to logic instead.

"The time to observe the trial would have been last week," she pointed out. "Watching Caroline construct her case and present the evidence—that's where my interest lies. The defense is not something we need to hear, because we'd just be devising counter-arguments, and… that's Caroline's job.

"However," Brennan mused, "it might be useful to hear the closing statements—each lawyer's summary interpretation. And then, the verdict will be read… followed by the sentencing…"

She did not want to think about any of that now. She wanted to finish her work in the lab today, and then leave. Escape to somewhere other than the same tired locations, both physical and psychological.

"I don't know how many of those I will attend," she told Angela. "So… it might help, if you went to hear them."

Angela smiled in relief. "And report back," she said, making a little salute with two fingers at her brow.

With that reaction, Brennan knew she'd said the right thing. It would have been too hard, and unnecessary, for her friend to listen to all of the court proceedings. But the offer meant a lot.

"Well, in that case," Angela proclaimed, "I have some free time. And I have a favor to ask, Bren. You know I haven't sketched or painted you in a long time, right? And I should really remedy that." Angela shifted on the couch, warming to her subject.

"See, I had this idea on Friday, when we were at the gym. I'm not going to tell you much, okay, until I get to work on it. But I'd really like to make some practice sketches before I block out the canvas. So I was thinking… one place that would really help me to draw you… You know, to create the right kind of mood or expression… would be at the firing range. Can I entice you into some target practice this week? I'll just tag along and stand nearby with my sketchbook, while you nail all those paper-cut-out bad guys."

Brennan listened with a familiar mix of curiosity and confusion. She had been friends with Angela long enough, that she did not find this sort of request unusual.

So she agreed, with the condition that a visit to the firing range occur sooner rather than later. "Because," she explained, "Booth and I decided to go on a spontaneous trip, for a few days of hiking and camping."

"Sweetie!" Angela stopped just short of a squeal. "That's a fabulous idea." She paused, her eyes dancing with questions that wanted to pop out. "A very romantic idea, too." She winked.

Brennan sighed at her friend's irrepressible drama. "We haven't even decided if we're doing any activities together, or just traveling together. Booth is choosing the location," she explained.

"You're letting _him _decide?" Angela was beside herself, looking both pleased and incredulous. The glint in her eye let Brennan know she was teasing; because this time, she could not censor her more imaginative comments. "Booth is planning the whole thing? How do you know this won't turn into some god-awful Ranger-reunion fieldtrip? He could have you trekking all over the freaking mountains, then coming back and having to build a fire using your own hair as kindling, and making a lean-to out of wet sticks."

"Ange…" Brennan's shoulders shook with helpless laughter.

Angela flashed her toothy grin, which faded to a warm smile. "It's good to hear you laugh, Bren.

"And I'm sure Booth can be trusted to come up with something appropriate. But… you know what this means, right?" Angela looked at her expectantly.

Brennan waited, guessing her friend would say something rich with innuendo. About sparks and campfires, or sleeping under the stars. Or she would refer to some official continuum of her own invention: _Going camping together? That places you and Booth solidly at stage four: the mini vacation, or true test of a relationship._

Brennan raised a skeptical eyebrow. But Angela beamed and said, "It means we have to go shopping."


	66. Chapter 66

**A/N: **I decided I had to fudge the timeline here. No one is counting except me, anyway. Technically the story has only taken about three months, but because it's been a year in our reality, it feels longer. Now it needs to be longer, if B/B are going camping: it can't be the middle of winter because I don't want them to freeze, and because no campgrounds open until March!

I'm also taking creative license with the camp area. I had horrible time trying to find a place for them—literally looking up lots of national park sites and their amenities. Finally said, screw it, I'll make up a place. :)

Why does this site keep destroying section breaks?

**Part 66**

Booth called Brennan late that afternoon.

"Bones, I found the perfect place. I'll email you the link for this campground, so you can check it out. You haven't left the lab yet?"

"No," she said, holding the phone against her shoulder and closing a document on her computer. "I take it Cullen did not object too strongly to your suddenly taking a few days off?"

"Nope. He was… It's almost like he agreed too easily. What about Cam?"

"She was also amenable."

"Maybe they're trying to get rid of us," Booth grunted. "They think we _need _a vacation?"

"You have to admit, this does sound like some team-building exercise that Sweets or the Bureau would make us do."

"Bones, believe me: we are not going to do any weird trust exercises, or blindfolded hikes with our hands tied together, or whatever those required things usually involve." Then Booth remembered. "Sweets," he groaned. "We're supposed to meet with him this week."

"When were you planning on leaving?" Brennan asked. "I suppose we could see him at the scheduled time, right before leaving town…"

"Yeah, we could… It shouldn't take more than three hours to get there… But you just know the kid's going to have all these _theories _about this trip. What it means and everything. I can hardly wait."

"Oh, in terms of what to bring," Brennan said, "Angela already told me that Hodgins would be glad to lend us of some of his camping gear. Tents or warm sleeping bags, or a secure box for food storage, since this is black bear country."

"Borrow gear from _Hodgins_?"

Brennan identified his tone as disbelief—that a _squint _could also be a rugged nature type.

"It seems he's quite the outdoorsman," she defended. "It only makes sense that he would enjoy observing insects and various flora in their native environments. Depending on where we're headed, he might ask me to bring back samples."

"Of course he will," Booth muttered. "Wait, he should know you can't remove stuff from a national park."

"Yes, but did you know that Buffalo Mountain, in the Blue Ridge range in Virginia, is home to three rare animals and thirteen rare plants? Hodgins told me it's the only known location in the world for a species of mealybug, _Puto kosztarabi_."

Bones was almost as excited about this as the bug guy would have been.

"Well, we're not going there," Booth said. "So Hodgins is out of luck with his _Pluto kohlrabi_. Trying to send my partner crawling all over the place looking for dangerous bugs..."

"No," Brennan corrected, "I never said they were dangerous. They live on trees, grasses and shrubs. I'm sure Hodgins would be glad to elaborate about…"

Booth stopped her as politely as he could, chuckling to himself.

But he realized he had come to the awkward part of the conversation. By now, Bones had had a chance to look over the campground's website.

"So, what do you say?" he asked. "I'll go ahead and book us a site? Or, um, two sites?"

"Two sites, yes." Bones answered in her straightforward manner, and it was what Booth had figured. This way they could spend time together, or apart, as they chose.

But it still felt like he was in high school, going to a party for the sole purpose of seeing a girl, but not being sure she was going, nor if she wanted to see him in return.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

They met with Sweets early Wednesday morning, then loaded their gear into Booth's truck, and took off.

"So, how did you find this place?" Brennan pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, to look at the flyer they'd printed from the campground's website.

"It was one of those things, Bones. You have to know the right people." Booth glanced in his side mirror. They were on the highway now, out of the city, and had left most of the traffic behind.

"I was doing the usual stuff, poking around online, remembering some places from other trips, but nothing really looked right. Then I was talking to this guy at the Bureau, and he knew someone who'd been to this great little place."

Brennan kept reading the description. "Right near Shenandoah National Park… within walking distance of several hiking trails, and a short drive to additional trail systems…"

She, like Booth, was already dressed for hiking: khaki pants, t-shirt, wind-resistant jacket.

"It's actually really lucky," he said, "because they just opened for the season. Half the places are still closed, and some of those within the park itself—I think they fill up fast with reservations, so we might not even have gotten in there. This, however, is off the beaten track, so a lot of tourists don't know about it. But it got really high ratings from those people who stayed there. "For example," Booth said, "you can camp in the park during the off season, but without amenities. I figured a lack of hot showers would be a deal-breaker for you."

"Booth, I have lived in very primitive conditions before. On some digs…"

"But not when you're supposed to be on _vacation_," he specified. "Besides, you probably don't want to be within ten feet of me, if we're going to be hiking and sleeping in a tent and not showering for four days in a row." He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

She wrinkled her nose, which he found to be an appropriate response, then put her sunglasses back over her eyes, and watched the scenery.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

They arrived at the campground in time for a late lunch, and were pleased with the food offered at the small café attached to the registration building.

Over their sandwiches, Booth commented, "I thought Sweets restrained himself rather well. He let us go without that much discussion. It must be a record for him."

"I know, he seemed to think this trip was a good idea."

"Yeah, and that kind of worries me." Booth took another bite of sandwich. "He didn't give us anything we were supposed to think about, or talk about… Did you see how he said, 'Have fun,' with this part shrinky, part little kid expression on his face? What does he think we're going to do?"

Brennan shrugged. Then she reached out and grabbed a stray slice of tomato that had fallen onto Booth's plate. She popped it in her mouth before he could react. "Hey!" he said with mock outrage. She gave him a cheeky smile.

When they had finished eating, Brennan stretched in her seat. "I was tempted to take a nap on the way here. I'm rather tired."

Booth narrowed his eyes at her, hoping it wasn't the same worrisome fatigue he'd seen the other day, after they'd watched Anders from behind the glass.

"There was a lot to do before we left," she explained. "Lab work and packing, getting the gear from Hodgins… Then Angela insisted that we go shopping, in case I needed anything else for the trip. And we also went to the firing range."

That made Booth pause. "You took a last minute trip for target practice? With _Angela_? You're not planning to go shoot something in the woods, are you?"

"No, of course not. She wanted to come along and do some sketches. Apparently she was inspired recently, to paint me, so she's pursuing her idea."

Booth couldn't help thinking, Yeah, Bones. You are pretty inspiring. I'd pursue you too.

"Perhaps she wants to paint a cathartic fantasy of me shooting Anders," Bones said in her literal way. "But I've learned it's best not to ask Angela about her process of creating artwork. The answers never make sense to me."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

While they checked in and learned about the local offerings, Booth chatted with the owners. Then they chose their campsites: near the center of the park, separated from each other by a small stand of trees and several empty sites.

Brennan refused his help setting up her tent, so he let her be. Parking the truck at his site, he unloaded and got the place ready.

Tent pitched and sleeping bag stowed inside. Camp stove placed by the fire pit. Water spigot tested and functional. Camp chairs unfolded. Shower building investigated. Food secured in the car until needed, so as not to tempt bears.

Then Booth sat himself in one of the low chairs, to admire his handiwork.

The campground was quiet. The middle-aged couple who ran it had said there were only half a dozen people staying here this early in the season, but they expected things to pick up in a couple weeks.

Booth stretched his feet out on the brown grass. A chilly breeze blew from the west, and pockets of snow still lingered in shaded areas.

No one was driving the gravel road that divided the grounds into neat segments. To the east, Booth could just make out the sound of the highway. In the other direction, the land rose in a gradual, tree-lined ridge, toward green-brown hills marching into the distance.

He watched a squirrel hop out from under a bush at the edge of his campsite. It stopped to eye him, as if deciding whether he would give handouts.

A few birds called from the trees overhead. Two sites down, a large red tent rippled slightly in the breeze. The campers must've been away, since there were no signs of people or a vehicle.

Booth couldn't see or hear anything from Bones' campsite, separated as they were by a short distance and a screen of trees. When he felt like he'd had enough solitude (which was only a few minutes later), he decided to walk over.

The first thing he saw was her rear end, as she crawled backwards out of the tent. She straightened up, holding an anthropology journal.

"Bones," he said, "you better put that right back. What do you say we go for a quick hike, take a tour of the area."

She hesitated, glancing down at her reading material.

"Bo-ones," he groaned. "You can do that anytime. But this—" he flung his arm toward the hills and trees. "This kind of stuff, you don't see every day."

"Booth," she said, "you don't need to lecture me about the best use of my time." But she sounded amused, rather than curt.

"Okay, no lectures," he said. "But come on. Let's go get the lay of the land. You know—Ranger stuff. It's required."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I will be out of town next week for a short break, although not camping like B/B. I do not intend to take a break from writing, so it's safe to expect another installment at the usual time. To quote Angela: Say thank you with gifts.


	67. Chapter 67

**Part 67**

Booth was dozing. Something had disrupted his slumber, but he wasn't fully awake. He must have fallen asleep on the couch again after the game. And now he was hearing whatever show was programmed for later that night.

Booth scrunched his face, half asleep, and turned onto his side. It didn't feel like he was lying on a narrow, squishy couch. And this program didn't sound like an infomercial or late-night comedy.

It sounded a porno flick. But he didn't have porn channels, for fear Parker would find them when he stayed over.

That was when he woke up. He stared at the gray-on-black interior of his tent, in this campground in the Virginia hills. He was bundled in a sleeping bag, lying on a foam pad over hard, bumpy ground.

The neighbors had evidently returned to their big red tent. Returned, and decided to star in their very own x-rated movie.

Booth listened to the unmistakable grunts and cries, not knowing whether to laugh or curse. Their campsite was not right next to his, but sound carried well in the still, cold night.

He hadn't even met these fellow campers; had no idea what they looked like or how old they were. But he would imagine it was young, judging by the vigor of the sounds, and the fact-he looked at the glowing digits on his watch-that it was past midnight.

Whoever they were, they were keeping him awake with their sexual escapades, in this supposedly tranquil location. The only sounds should have been owls hooting, wind rattling the tree branches, or the occasional coyote yipping from the hills.

At least they're in a tent, Booth thought, so there's no squeaking bed, or headboard banging against a wall.

He heard a sigh, and then a man's chuckle. A woman's voice answered, husky and low. After a minute, the man made a sort of growl in his throat, and the woman moaned with pleasurable abandon.

Damn, Booth thought. That guy is lucky.

But I'm glad I got this site, and not Bones.

He wouldn't want her to have to listen to the happy couple. And yet, was that a legitimate concern? For all he knew, she would be perfectly indifferent. She would shrug it off as typical human behavior, drag her pillow over her head and go back to sleep. Or she would find it anthropologically interesting, and proceed to tell him about some study of behavior patterns and human coitus, featuring a group of people who lived in yurts in Siberia.

But Booth had a feeling some part of it would bother her.

He lay in embarrassed silence, while the sounds from next door reached their inevitable peak.

When things were finally quiet, he prayed the couple would roll over and go to sleep, so he could do the same. He would admit to feeling envy, but it fought with irritation and amusement.

And he would rather sink into sleep than keep wondering how this would've affected Bones. It would have to bother her, wouldn't it? It was bothering him.

Because the last encounter she'd had with sex had been far from cheery and consensual.

Wasn't she someone who enjoyed simple, straightforward pleasures in life? And if Anders had ruined that for her…

Booth felt his skin flush with anger. There was yet another reason to hate the son of a bitch, whose lawyer was spending this very week persuading the jury that he was a poor, misunderstood scapegoat.

All was quiet next door. Booth had been tempted to get up and throw cold water on the couple in question. But that was his anger talking. And they seemed ready to sleep, this time.

It was possible, he thought, that Bones had already gone out and slept with someone. Some old boyfriend, maybe, who could always be counted on to… 'satisfy biological needs.' Booth would try to be happy for her if she had, because it should mean she was doing all right. But he had the feeling, rational or not, that he'd _know_ if she'd been with someone.

He wriggled further down into his sleeping bag. The weather here was a lot colder than in D.C., and right now his feet would've been chilly, but he had worn socks to bed. So even if his nose was cold, his toes were blissfully warm.

Simple pleasures, he thought.

And I don't just mean sex. But since that's the topic… God, I hope Bones can enjoy it again. Except…

Except that he couldn't think of any man he'd want her to enjoy it with.

And the obvious choice… It was _not _what he was going to spend this trip thinking about.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The next morning, Booth crawled shivering out of his tent, and found Bones sitting at his campsite holding two steaming cups of coffee.

"I brought these from the cafe," she said. She was fully dressed in hiking gear with her backpack next to her, and looking much too chipper for this time of the morning. "I didn't want to leave without telling you. I'm starting off with one of these long loop trails." She gestured at the hiking map spread out on the grass.

Booth sat in the entrance to his tent, reaching for his boots. "Yeah, Bones…" He squinted at the sky. "I'm going to do that too, but I thought I'd actually relax a little first. You know, wait until the sun is actually over the trees."

"The sun has been up for hours, Booth." She drained her coffee cup, set his down within easy reach, and got to her feet. "Have fun relaxing. I'll see you later." She slung her bag over her shoulder, and strode off toward the trailhead at the edge of camp.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth did have fun relaxing, with a leisurely start to his day. Sipping the coffee Brennan had brought, he watched the light change as the sun rose higher. The shadows shortened; the air took on a warmer golden hue, rather than the cold blue of a winter morning. At the edge of camp, birds and squirrels hopped about the grass looking for crumbs.

After breakfast, Booth laced up his hiking boots and set off. The first trail he chose took him through woods, to a small waterfall. It was partly frozen; trickles poured over the rocks, while columns of ice framed the stream in suspended animation.

The path underfoot varied from soil and stones, to melting snow and mud. He hiked up and down rolling hills, coming to several scenic overlooks, where boulders perched on sloping cliffs over blankets of trees. Not the lush foliage of future seasons, but muted gray-browns and greens. Booth liked it just as well: the colors subtle, the landscape spartan.

He headed back after two hours, relishing the slight burn in his leg muscles.

When he returned to camp, he found the sex fiends from next door.

To be fair, they looked like an average young couple, twenty-five or maybe thirty years old. They were sitting in the open back of their beat-up Subaru. A cooler of food rested on their picnic table, with the remains of lunch or a late breakfast.

Booth walked along the gravel road toward his campsite, observing them. The woman had short brown hair with a kerchief tied over it. The man… Booth laughed wryly to himself. It was a white guy with dreadlocks.

The two were wearing fleece jackets, sitting side by side, facing out the back of their car. They dangled their feet lazily over the bumper, smoking something. The girl had just taken a drag, closing her eyes for a moment before exhaling bittersweet smoke. Booth realized they were passing a joint back and forth.

I don't believe this, he thought. I'm living next to a pair of hippies. All they need now is a guitar and a big VW bus painted psychedelic colors.

They nodded at him and said hello as he walked past. He must have stared a little too long at the joint the young man was now holding, because he grimaced and said, "Man, you're not a cop, are you?" He glanced at his girlfriend as if to say, 'That would be just our luck.'

Booth gave a wolfish smile in return. "I'm off duty."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan had hiked almost half the loop before realizing she was burned out.

The beauty of the location distracted her for several miles, just as Booth's presence had distracted her yesterday. But as she climbed steadily uphill on the tree-lined path toward an overlook, she felt like she wasn't fully _here_.

It resembled culture shock: moving from one location to a very different one, and not being able to adapt.

Brennan stopped to watch a bird flit past and land in the branches of a tree up ahead. She glanced down at her muddy hiking boots. At the whistle attached to her jacket, to call for help or warn bears away.

She was in a wilderness area, equipped with outdoor gear. But nothing, in fact, was different. She still felt as drained as she had on Monday, staring at Anders in that interrogation room.

Coming here did not change anything. And it bothered her, that she couldn't identify the source of her fatigue. Muscular endurance… cardiovascular fitness… low-burning emotional stress. It seemed like all of these, and none. It came from the core of her body.

Brennan stood still on the forest path. She took a drink of water, and returned the bottle to her pack. Its straps had made her neck and shoulders tense, so she shrugged them, trying to relax.

She breathed slowly, the air smelling of wet leaves and mountain breezes. She looked at the tree trunks all around: tall columns of varied textures and hues. The light shining between them, dappling the dirt trail. The ridges and ripples of leftover snow, like little glaciers.

These simple things stunned her. They ached, somehow. But the pain was pleasant.

This was not the city, with its endless traffic, endless crime. This was not the Jeffersonian, with its sterile metal and artificial lights. Not her apartment, with her books and furniture weighing her down.

Yet, out here… She still felt weighed down.

Brennan started to walk again, coming up to a bend in the trail, near the top of this long hill. She could see a preview of the vista, through the trees. Thin streamers of cloud in an otherwise clear sky. Hills undulating into the distance. Tiny rectangular buildings of the nearest town.

It made her feel lonely, and grateful, and tired.

She told herself she wouldn't stop until she reached the top, and pushed doggedly onward. Her boots crunched on dead leaves, or slipped, without traction, through mud. Her calf muscles and quads burned, demanding more oxygen than they were getting.

At the top, she took a shuddering breath, and sat on the nearest rock without even looking the view.

She was already crying, and couldn't explain why. Tears overflowed as though they'd been waiting for her guard to come down. She slipped her pack from her shoulders. Stared at the pale green lichens growing on the rock. Blew her nose on her sleeve.

Something Booth had said floated into her mind. She had asked him why she felt no better, once Anders was in custody. _It's when the hard shit is over_, he had said. _You remove the source of the pain, but things still hurt. And sometimes, relief is worse._

It was such a relief being out here.

Anders' trial was not over, but her part in it was. Perhaps she and Booth should have saved this trip until after the verdict. Because when they got back, they still had to deal with everything again. Not directly, not taking the stand… but deal with it nonetheless.

Brennan looked up at the thin forest on the other side of the path (thin, she knew, because of this vantage point's higher elevation). The sun had warmed her back, sitting here, but the coldness of the rock was beginning to seep into her thighs.

She had reached the far end of this loop; it had taken longer than she expected.

I don't know if I have the energy to get back.

I got overconfident. Overestimated my endurance. Thinking I could just shrug off the effects of the past many weeks, like I shrugged off this backpack.

While her rib injuries were healing, she had been patient enough. But Brennan remembered that first, real deep breath, once the pain had diminished. She hadn't known how much she'd _needed _that breath, until she took it. Inhaling all the way down through her diaphragm. Holding it for a brief, satisfying second, before slowly letting it go.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N:** Confidential to Caitlin: you're the only reader who knows where some of these plot details come from, my friend. ;)


	68. Chapter 68

**A/N: **Apologies in advance for this being slightly shorter than I'd like. But I really needed to recover from my vacation. Or rather, the transition back to what passes for RL, _after _the vacation. But B/B are still on their trip, so let's have some fun.

**Part 68**

Booth lounged around the campsite after his hike. He ate a nice lunch from his stash of food, and chatted with the hippie neighbors. Then they'd taken off somewhere in their car, either hiking or shopping (whatever it was, they were probably high while they were doing it).

Booth stretched out in the camp chair reading a sports magazine, until he decided to see what Bones was up to after her hike. He was about to get up and walk over to her site, when he saw her trudging up the road.

He sat up straighter, forgetting his magazine. Brennan came straight into his camp, dropped her pack, and collapsed into the other chair.

She was wearing the same down vest from this morning. It was unzipped, over a thermal shirt that showed a dark patch of sweat between her breasts. She pulled off her sunglasses, tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

Booth didn't know whether to be worried or amused. She must have known he was staring at her, because she said by way of explanation, "Your site was closer."

He looked at her muddy boots, her messy ponytail, and the hat crumpled in her hand.

"Five hour hike, Bones? On your first day?"

She groaned. "Yes. It was overly ambitious." Damp strands of hair clung to her face, and she ran a hand over her forehead to push them back. Then she leaned forward, reaching for her boots. "God, I have to get these off." She grimaced, picking at the tightly knotted laces.

Booth got to his feet. It had suddenly struck him, with a horrible sort of clarity, the last time he had watched her struggle to untie knots.

"Here, let me get that." He kneeled down in front of her, desperately hoping she hadn't recalled the same thing.

But she let him replace her hands with his, sitting back in the chair with a grateful sigh. She looked too tired to remember anything, not even a cursory complaint about being treated like a child.

The first boot lace was virtually untied, so he loosened it, and slipped the shoe off. She let her knee fall open in exhaustion, and he reached for her other foot. Plucking at the knots, he finally pulled that boot off too.

Bones sighed in relief. Moaned, actually. The sound was breathy and throaty and very much like the uninhibited woman from the red tent.

Booth had been focused on the task at hand. But now, as he set her boots to one side, his skin tingled and his face felt hot.

He couldn't help looking at her, from where he sat between her feet. Brennan was totally relaxed, trusting him. Reclining in the camp chair, legs carelessly outstretched. Head tilted back, eyes closed, cheeks still flushed from exercise. Vest and shirt unzipped to reveal the creamy V of skin below her throat.

If he moved just a few inches forward, he'd be kneeling between her thighs.

Of course, they were both fully dressed in trail pants and long-sleeve shirts. But Booth realized he had never been in such a position with her. (Not while he was awake, anyway.)

He stood very quickly, backing up until his legs hit the picnic bench.

Bones hadn't noticed a thing; her eyes were still closed. She mumbled, "Thanks, Booth. You're too good to me."

He forced his voice to sound insouciant. "You're right. And don't you forget it."

She opened one eye to give him a disapproving look. Then she sat up, glancing around the campsite. "Do you have any food? And water?"

"Of course I do, Bones. You need some?"

"Please."

He retrieved the cooler from the car and set it in front of her. Sitting back down with his magazine, he watched her forage through the contents, and systematically devour a sandwich, two bananas, several cookies and a hunk of cheese.

He waited until she had finished drinking a tall glass of water before he said anything else.

"So, you did this marathon hike, after being tired yesterday?" He hoped the wry curiosity in his voice would encourage her to be candid rather than closed off.

Brennan took a last swallow of water and leaned back against the chair, content.

"Yes, well… I woke up this morning with plenty of energy, and I thought I was fine… At least at the start."

"Only," Booth asked, "at the start?"

Bones brushed at some mud on the knee of her pants. "I got my second wind, after a while. But in the middle there…"

There was something about the set of her shoulders, Booth thought, or the faint shadows under her eyes…

If she was injured or sick, she would have told me. But that's not what it is.

"I'm sure it was partly to blame on low blood sugar," she went on. "I ate some trail mix at the far end of the loop, and I did feel better after about twenty minutes."

Booth wanted to press her about what had happened out there. Straightforward fatigue… that was tough to deal with, but it wasn't an experience that she would avoid talking about.

Still, he kept quiet.

A small airplane droned over the camp, and passing clouds mottled the grass with shadows.

"Hey, I met our neighbors." Booth changed the subject, jerking his thumb at the large red tent behind him. "You want to know who they are? Kids not much older than Sweets, who also happen to be sex-crazed, pot-smoking hippies."

"Hippies?" Brennan repeated.

He briefly described them: the guy with his dreadlocks, the girl with a bandana over her head.

"They were smoking marijuana?" Bones asked. "Are you going to arrest them?"

"Nah." Booth pushed back in his chair, making its metal joints creak. "I'm not going to ruin some kids' vacation, and my own, by busting them for drug paraphernalia. I'm more concerned with getting a good night's sleep."

"Is this where the sex-crazed part comes in?"

Trust Bones to put the pieces together—especially when he wasn't sure he wanted to bring this up. But it was too late to avoid the topic now.

"Yep," he said. He crossed his ankles, and laced his hands together over his stomach. "There I was, sleeping like a baby in my tent under the stars, but then, well after midnight, my neighbors were… They were having a romantic evening. A rather loud romantic evening."

"You mean you heard them having sex."

"Yeah."

Brennan was smoothing out the hat she had previously wadded in her hand. It was a plain gray knit, and after tugging her ponytail lower, she pulled it over her head. Booth figured she'd gotten cold after eating, because she'd zipped up her vest, too.

"If they were that disruptive, you could always move your site," she suggested. "Or simply ask them to be more quiet."

The corner of Booth's mouth turned up. She looked so endearing right now, with her serious eyes, and that hat pulled down over her hair. One crazy strand had escaped, and it looped out over her ear and back toward her neck.

"Simply ask them to be more quiet?" he echoed. "And how would that conversation go, Bones?" He sat up, leaning toward her. "Excuse me, but would you mind—" Now he had to look away, and barked out a laugh. "Just go over and say, I'm being kept awake at odd hours of the night by your very loud and boisterous lovemaking, so could you please restrain yourselves?"

Brennan shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"


	69. Chapter 69

**A/N: **I really don't know what got into them here. It occurred to me that Brennan would grumble about the showers, but then they just went off into suggestive-fantasy-land. So I had to follow! Don't worry, there's more angst later.

**Part 69**

That evening Booth and Brennan ate dinner at the campground's café. They decided to warm themselves with bowls of hearty soup, placed on the red-and-white checked tablecloths. It was growing dark outside, and one of the waiters went around to light little lamps in the windows overlooking the grounds.

Bones spent part of the time complaining about the coin-operated showers. Although, Booth was glad to note, she kept her voice down, so the staff members wouldn't overhear.

He listened to her gripe for a minute, realizing that in this situation, he was the one rationalizing. "Running this place is essentially seasonal work, Bones. You can't begrudge them a little extra cash from our water use. You know, all those grubby hikers taking really long showers."

Booth dunked a piece of bread in his soup and popped it into his mouth. His tone dared Brennan to argue, but she didn't take the bait. Didn't say,_ Are you implying that I was 'grubby'? Or that I waste water? _

Instead she announced, "Showers are supposed to be relaxing. But here, you have to carry a large stack of quarters along with your other things, and then listen to the meter running out on you the whole time. And if it does run out, it's this very loud click, and the water just stops. That is the antithesis of relaxing. And," she ranted, "what if someone ran out of coins when they were still covered with soap from head to foot?"

Bones had been brandishing her spoon like a weapon, but finally used it to take a swallow of soup.

Booth could tell she was only a little annoyed by the showers, but for whatever reason had decided to make a speech out of it. He, himself, couldn't help teasing.

"Come on, Bones. You're rich, right? I bet you brought about three times as many quarters as you thought you would need."

He caught the slightly guilty look on her face, but she wouldn't admit he was right. So he kept going.

"Now, me on the other hand… _I'm_ much more likely to run out of quarters mid-shower. But I guess I know who to go to, right, to borrow more? That's what _I'd _have to do, if the water shut off on me. Run across the campground all covered with soap, and beg you to lend me enough to finish my shower."

He was grinning crookedly, not sure how he had gotten to this point, but enjoying himself too much to care. And Brennan was going along with it.

He knew by the look she was giving him. The half smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes flickering over his hair, his shoulders, his waist… That was as much as she could see, with the two of them sitting across a table from each other.

Her survey was brief, but he noticed it.

It looked like she was picturing the same thing he was: Booth, standing in her campsite. Dripping wet and shivering. Having just run across the grounds, gingerly, on bare feet. Bones would be reading some anthropology journal. She would look up, coolly, to appraise him: naked and lathered like a sweaty racehorse. She would take her time deciding whether she would give him the coins… or whether she'd rather just watch him.

"Come on, Bones," he said from across the table. "Would you give me the quarters, or not?"

"You're being ridiculous." But her eyes were snapping with amusement, and they dropped down his torso again, lingering over his chest.

Booth started to laugh, and Brennan's half-smile cracked into a large one. They sat there laughing at each other and the strange fantasy they seemed to have simultaneously concocted.

Bones was shaking her head at him. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and it lay on her shoulders in tangled curls, against the fleece of her jacket.

She managed to stop giggling long enough to take a sip of water. Finally she said, "The logical thing to do, in that situation, would be to simply dry off, and go get change from the registration building."

"Yeah…" Booth actually winked at her. "But that wouldn't be as much fun, would it?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

After dinner, Booth walked up the road leading to the highway, in search of better cell reception so he could talk to Parker.

Explaining the reason for this sudden vacation had been a little tricky. But Booth was proud that he had never _lied _to his son about what had happened in the suite. He just left a ton of things out.

Because Parker was a smart kid; he had to be told something. He knew when his father was worried, and he'd overheard his parents talking about Booth's various out-of-state trips, to apprehend Anders and Rawling.

Booth thought about the original conversation, as he trudged up the dark, tree-lined road, staring at the lighted bars on the screen of his cell phone.

_Bones and I went to arrest some bad guys, _he had said. _But she got hurt before we could do that. She was fighting with them, and… eventually they got away._

Parker's first question had hit him right in the gut. _Weren't you there, Daddy? Couldn't you help her fight them?_

_No, bud. I mean… She was in another room of the building. I couldn't get to her. I really wanted to, but I couldn't. _

_She's okay now, though?_

_Yeah. She had her ribs x-rayed at the hospital, and they're all healed now. She's fine. But… _

This part was harder to explain.

_We both felt really bad, because the bad guys got away, at first. We got them later, _he'd quickly added, _so they're in jail, and everybody is safe. But Bones felt bad because she got hurt, and that's always a little scary. Just remembering it can be scary, even after you're all better. _

_Like that time, _Parker said, _I was scared to climb trees after I fell and hurt my wrist?_

_Yeah, _Booth had told him. _It's kind of like that._

He stopped at the top of the hill, realizing the cell reception was as good as he was going to get.

Rebecca answered the call, and put Parker on. Booth always had to smile when he heard his son's voice. They talked about math games and gym class and cartoons, and an upcoming fieldtrip. Then Booth told him about the hike he'd done today.

Parker paused and then said, "I thought the rule was, no girls allowed, when we went camping. But you and Bones are there together?"

"Well, not totally together… She does her thing and I do mine. We each have our own site…" Booth broke off, thinking this would be too complicated to describe. He stuttered for a moment, pointing out that a lot of girls liked to go camping, and it actually wasn't fair to _exclude _them.

"The reason Bones and I wanted to go…" He took a deep breath, and reminded Parker of that first conversation. How Brennan had been hurt, fighting criminals. How Booth felt bad _because _she got hurt. "So," he said, "sometimes we both get a little sad, and it just takes time for us to feel better. That's partly why we're going camping for a few days."

"Because camping is fun," Parker concluded. "Unless it rains a lot. Are you going to take Bones fishing like you took me?"

Booth chuckled. "No, pal, I don't think so. But we're going to make a campfire tonight, like you and I did."

"Aw, that's really cool! Are you going to toast marshmallows?" Without waiting for an answer, he said, "I hope it makes Bones feel better. Tell her that, okay? I bet she'll have fun camping just like I did."

Booth said goodnight and walked slowly back to camp, touched by his son's artless well-wishes. He wanted to convey them to Bones, but… He just couldn't. He would have to explain how Parker knew, and what he'd been told about events in the suite.

And maybe Bones, too, would be touched by the boys' spontaneous kindness. But she would also hear the ordeal repackaged for the six-year-old audience. And Booth did not want them to rehash it, not now. Not even the G-rated version.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth returned to his campsite to find Brennan walking in with an armful of sticks and branches. She set them on the ground by the fire pit, next to some neatly bundled split logs that were sold at the campground.

"I thought it was silly to _buy _firewood," she said, "but most of the dead wood out there is damp, and will make a smoky fire. Besides, I've had enough trekking around the woods for one day."

"Sure, Bones," he agreed. "We can do things the easy way for once."

She let him make the fire; since it turned out, in all her travels, that wasn't a skill she'd had a chance to learn. So she seated herself in one of the low chairs, and watched his careful construction.

First, Booth broke up the larger blocks of wood with a hatchet. He started with a base of newspaper in the fire pit, and small-size logs arranged in a crisscross pattern. Then he placed bigger branches on top, leaning into a pyramid shape. Finally he poked more kindling through the spaces in between. Striking a match, he held it to the base of the logs. They watched the flames take, first with the newspaper: its red-orange edges dissolving to black, before shriveling into tatters of ash.

When the wood was burning well, with flames leaping and twisting toward the sky, Booth sat back on his heels. "There, look at that, huh, Bones? _That _is a well-made fire."

"If you do say so yourself." She smiled to show she agreed with his assessment.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

What was it about fires, Booth wondered, that made a person get all quiet and meditative? That was how he felt, sitting and watching the campfire with Bones. They hadn't talked much, just gazed at the crackling flames and snapping sparks.

They sat at angles to each other, he with his back to the tent and his feet stretched out to one side of the fire; she facing the tent, with her feet stretched out toward him.

Finally she said, "Booth." There was a faint crease between her brows, so her meditations must not have been that calm after all.

"I thought of something, while I was hiking." Brennan had her arms crossed comfortably over herself. That plain gray hat rested in her lap; she'd been putting it on and taking it off as she got warmer or cooler, based on her proximity to the fire.

"Yeah?" he prompted softly.

Bones didn't answer right away. Leaning forward, she drew her knees up to her chest. The chairs were low enough that she could wrap her arms around her legs, and Booth felt suddenly uneasy: what was she going to say, if she had to get into a virtual fetal position before saying it? He wanted to sit up straighter, but stayed still so as not to distract her.

"You know how… you or Angela will talk about my… walls. To keep people at a distance."

He nodded, not denying her description.

"I realized," she said carefully, "they're not to keep people out. They're to keep me upright."

Booth sat forward. "Bones…!" There was no mistaking the shocked concern in his voice, but she hurried to reassure him.

"No, I'm fine. I feel fine, now. And the hike… it wasn't bad, it was just…" She stared into the fire. "Tiring, and wonderful, and… It felt so good to be out here, away from—everything."

He could agree with that. But he still didn't understand.

"I guess I really needed this trip. And today, it just felt like something… broke. I don't know if that's bad, or good, or somewhere in between."

The flames glowed warmly on her face, and flickering shadows created a dark bruise on her cheekbone, where before there had been light.

"But whatever you want to call these… structures or riverbanks or walls… they're not to keep people out. Maybe when I was younger, yes—but that's not their primary function. They're… to keep me going. When you don't think you can. When there's no reason to."

Booth didn't want to interrupt, and didn't think he could have. These revelations rendered him speechless.

"Today wasn't that bad," Brennan repeated, "but sometimes, when things are tough… You just give out, and you don't have anything left. You're sick of fighting and pushing onward. But—you do. You have to."

Her eyes were focused on something else, beyond the fire. "Because you have to go to work tomorrow, or to classes. You have more bodies to identify before you can go home. Or you hiked all this way, and you still have to get yourself back."

She glanced at Booth with a wry expression, as if to lessen the starkness of her words.

"There's no use sitting on the ground, giving up and crying. Because you'll still have to get up again, and keep going."

"Not always, Bones," he said gently. "You're not totally alone. You can always call someone to come get you."

He wasn't being a hundred percent literal, but that was how she responded.

"There's no real reason to—unless I was actually injured. Besides, cell phones barely work out here. And for much of my life, I didn't have a way to call for help. Nor anyone who could come get me."

Her voice was straightforward, but he reacted to the innate loneliness of the words. "You've got _me_, Bones. You've got Angela. Maybe your brother, and your dad."

"Yes," she agreed. "I have called Angela, several times over the course of our friendship." She paused, then followed that train of thought. "Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I needed… And usually I feel foolish afterward, for over-reacting, and for waking her up."

"Has she," Booth asked, "called _you _in the middle of the night, when she's upset?"

"Yes."

"And what do you do, to try to help?"

"I listen, mostly. Try to act as a sounding board, if there's some crisis. Or offer logic, if it will help."

"Has she called you as many times as you've called her?"

Bones was surely wondering about the interview questions, but she nodded. "Maybe more. It's not only in the middle of the night, of course. But she has probably appealed to me with greater frequency. Why are you counting?"

"Not counting." Booth smiled faintly. "Just showing that… you and Angela, you share that. It's what we do, Bones. For the important people in our lives."

He held her gaze for what seemed like a long time, until the breeze shifted, blowing smoke in her face. She turned away, coughing.

"Here," Booth said, and held out his arm to encourage her closer to his side of the fire. She stood up and dragged her chair over, while he pushed some spare firewood out of the way with his foot.

When she sat down again they were side by side.

"There, huh?" Booth said. "Plenty of room. You see? We don't have to tough things out all on our own."

Bones looked at him with a curious curve to her lips. "Well… I suppose I'm learning that. I did tell you about this. Whatever _this _was, that happened on my hike."

"And you came to my site afterward," he added. "Even if that was just because it was closer." Then he grinned. "You even let me take your boots off."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I told myself that I was too proud and independent to beg for reviews. But after this nice juicy section, I find that is not true. So, please? It will make me a happier camper. (Haha.)


	70. Chapter 70

**A/N: **I can't believe I didn't catch an out-of-place apostrophe last chapter. The word was supposed to be singular possessive, but ended up plural. I hope no one noticed.

Now: the campfire scene goes on. Booth had things to contribute to the discussion… and it just developed from there.

**Part 70 **

Brennan was getting sleepy, watching the fire, but didn't want to return to her campsite just yet. She stretched her feet out to the rocks that made up the hearth, feeling the intense heat on her toes, while the cool night air chilled her back.

Booth sat next to her, and would get up periodically to tend—or perhaps just play with—the fire. He would add a new piece of wood, or poke a stick into the embers, making part of the structure collapse with a flurry of sparks and ash.

Brennan tilted her head back to look at the night sky. She and Booth had already spent time admiring it, for it was just as captivating as the fire. Above the spiraling sparks and the dark outlines of trees, the sky looked deep and thick with stars.

Booth had surprised her by knowing as many constellations as she did. "Come on, Bones," he'd said. "Former Army Ranger? And someone who takes his kid camping? I've got to know this stuff."

They also talked about his neighbors, who had recently returned to their site. Headlights beamed through the dark, and tires crunched on gravel as their car pulled into the drive. The young "hippies" got out, and soon settled into their tent.

Booth glanced over his shoulder toward them, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Brennan guessed he was afraid the couple would start having sex, now, within earshot.

She looked over her shoulder, too, and saw through the trees, the tent glowing red, lit from within by a camping lantern. Two silhouettes were visible inside, and she could hear faint voices and laughter.

"They're playing a card game," Booth surmised. He sounded relieved.

Brennan decided to tease him. "You looked very nervous there for a while. Thinking they would resume last night's activities?"

He gave a grudging smile. "No, they're probably saving _that _for the next hour or two. I bet they're going to wait until I've just fallen asleep, and then do it purely to tick me off."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan felt her feet getting too hot, propped by the fire. So she sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. If she leaned forward, the heat radiated against her face and arms. And if she stared hard at the center of the blaze, it dazzled her retinas, creating strange patterns when she looked away.

Booth had seemed pensive these last few minutes. She realized why, when he spoke.

"That thing you said… of keeping on going, even when you think you're done… I've been there."

She glanced at him, and he was staring at the hearth stones, twisting a strip of newspaper between his hands.

"Sometimes… when my dad was drinking. Or a couple times, in the Gulf."

Brennan waited, then asked softly, "What did you do? _How _did you…?"

He blinked at the fire, his jaw tight. "I guess I just… maybe I had more people than you did. I mean, at the time, or later. Like my brother, or my Army buddies. People to keep you company, to urge you on and shore you up. People to look after and worry about, rather than focusing on yourself. And later, people to recover with. To relax with. Or…" He gave her a look that was both tender and ironic. "To call and have them get you, when you're too tired to get home.

"You know…" Booth cleared his throat. "When I'd come back from a mission abroad, or now after a tough case, I can go toss a football with my son. Or get a beer with Jared. He can be really annoying, but he _is _my brother. We'd just sit there, maybe watch football…" Booth smiled in a nostalgic sort of way. "…Talk about stuff, or not talk, and basically shoot insults at each other."

Brennan was trying to work out how that was comforting, when he realized her confusion.

"That's how guys bond, Bones."

"With insults?"

"Yeah. And football."

She let it go, and thought back on what he had said. "So… is that the primary factor? That you have more people?"

It was a simple explanation, but it somehow made her feel guilty, and bereft. _You have someone to focus on_, Booth had said, _other than yourself_.

"No," he answered. "Maybe. It's all about where your thoughts are, and your habits. For a long time…" He held up the twisted newspaper, turning it from side to side, backlit by the fire.

"I would gamble, instead. To distract myself from whatever it was—these low points we're talking about. And those calculated risks, they made me feel… purposeful, and productive, and in control. Even if I was just fooling myself, and none of those things were true.

"But then… you have to learn better things to do." Booth glanced at her, then away. He crossed his feet, moving them a little closer to the fire.

She kept her arms wrapped around her knees, resting her chin down on her hand when the fire got too bright to look at.

"I think," Booth said, "I felt this kind of thing last week. After our testimonies—" He didn't say_ at Anders' trial_. The meaning was obvious; but Brennan got the feeling he didn't want to say the man's name.

"Telling all that stuff, and hearing you tell yours… I was just so damn tired afterward. I didn't want to do anything. But I went to the gym, and…" Booth sighed. "Maybe I felt better. You know, sticking to the routine. Still trying, at least a little. And then…"

Brennan looked away from the fire, hearing his tone change. He shifted his shoulders, as if to shrug off melancholy.

"There I was, puttering around my apartment, by myself on a Friday night… And who should arrive at my door but Hodgins? With an armful of movies and beer."

Brennan smiled despite herself.

"You had Angela send him over, didn't you?" Booth's eyes glinted with mischief.

"Well, she insisted on staying with _me _that night, so I thought… It didn't make you angry?"

"No, Bones. I mean, it was sort of awkward, because it's not like Hodgins and I really hang out. But… you thought right, okay? I appreciate it."

"I'm glad."

"Yeah…" Booth stretched, and tossed the twisted newspaper onto the ground. "Because I wasn't stewing in my apartment all by myself. I was drinking beer and watching movies with a squint. And then I got to spend the weekend with Parker.

"That's the other thing, Bones. Parker. Trying to be a good father to him… but it's more than that." He chuckled. "It's hard to be depressed around that kid. Around any kid, almost. Yeah, sometimes it makes me tired just watching him. But everything is new and exciting and a big deal. Whether we're talking about his friends, or sports, or science…

"Just the other day he was like, 'Dad, did you know that bats can see in the dark? And the way they do it is with their ears.' He was trying to explain what he learned about their…echolocation." Booth glanced at her to verify he had the right term.

"He was really excited about it. How they can use sound waves, the echoes or whatever, to see in the dark, and fly, and catch bugs, all at high speeds.

"And half the time, I already know this stuff, but I didn't really think about it. I just took it for granted. But Parker… he draws my attention to it. Makes me see things in a different light. And that…" Booth shook his head, a note of wonder in his voice. "It's like a gift."

Brennan sat quietly, thinking she'd heard an owl hooting from the trees. Perhaps there were bats in this area as well.

"Booth," she said. "The two of us see things very differently. Would it be fair to say… that's like a gift, between us?"

It was a logical step, from what he had said. But she knew it was also an emotionally loaded question.

Booth turned to her, and his first reaction looked like surprise. But he seemed to have gone very still, as well.

He stayed quiet long enough that it made her uneasy. Then he smiled crookedly. "Wow, Bones. You just caught me off guard, there."

Brennan felt it was suddenly very important to decipher his expressions. He looked a bit startled, yes. But something shone behind his eyes, like when he'd talked about Parker.

Sitting up, Booth rested his elbows on his thighs. His eyes now appeared dark and serious, but when he looked at her, they reflected the leaping firelight.

"Yeah," he told her. "I mean, not _all _the time, like in New Orleans when you tried to say Jesus was a zombie. But… a kind of gift? I'd say that's pretty accurate."

Brennan held his gaze, while the fire's heat made her cheeks flush. She was still trying to understand that light in his eyes. It wasn't an effect of the campfire. It was tender, and proud, and full of promise.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The next day they decided to go on the other's hike. Brennan was happy to take a shorter trip to see the little waterfall, while Booth tried her extra-long loop trail.

This time, she was relaxing at her site in the afternoon, when he plodded in and collapsed dramatically on the grass. Setting down his pack, he flopped onto his back and flung his arms out.

"Damn, Bones," he groaned. "That was exhausting. How did you do that?"

She was sitting cross-legged in front of her tent, reading an anthropology journal. Glancing at her watch, she pointed out, "You did it in less time than I did."

"Yeah, but you'd warned me beforehand, so I knew what to expect. Still, that climb to the top was pretty impressive. Guess I haven't been going on long enough runs at home." He sat up, rubbing one hand over his forehead. "But I did bring _lots _of food and water." He grinned at her. "So I don't have to steal _your _food now, to make up for what you ate yesterday."

"You can have some, if you like," she offered. "Or did you want me to take your boots off for you, first?"

She was only half joking, and Booth nearly told her to go ahead. But then he recalled his position from yesterday. He started to imagine leaning back and relaxing, with his feet stretched out, and Brennan kneeling between his thighs, while she…

Nope. That would not be a smart course of action.

Booth made friendly excuses, and hurried back to his own camp.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

After he had eaten and showered, they trekked into the trees at the edge of camp, to collect firewood for the evening.

Booth was bending to pick up an unwieldy branch, trying not to drop the armload he already had, when Brennan said, "Look. Are those bones?"

Before he could even identify what she was looking at, she said, "They are," and made a beeline straight for them.

He gave up on the branch, and scanned the area where she had pointed. He caught a glimpse of dirty white, hidden near some shrubs at the base of several trees. Brennan was pushing at underbrush as she made her way over to the bones.

"Oh, God," Booth moaned, "please tell me they're not human."

Brennan crouched down to peer at the bones, then picked one up and turned it in her hands. She had immediately set down her armload of firewood before heading over there. Typical, Booth thought. Everything else forgotten in the pursuit of spooky science.

"No," she told him. "Deer." Narrowing her eyes at the pointy bones, she picked up a longer one. "Thoracic vertebrae… and a humerus."

"Thank God," Booth said. "I thought we'd have to go solve a murder in the woods, while we're on _vacation _from solving murders." He put down his own firewood and walked over.

Brennan was kneeling in the dirt and leaves, examining the end of a leg bone. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and a little twig had caught itself in the strands over her ear.

Booth wanted to lean close and carefully extract it. Instead he said, "Bones, don't go touching that. You don't know where it's been. It could have all kinds of germs and blood and…" It looked rather dirty to him, smudged at one end with a reddish stain. But Brennan was not listening. Just the way she didn't listen in the lab, when focused on a task.

"Okay, doc," Booth announced. "Let's hear it. Male or female? Age? Cause of death?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" He was trying to tease, but she remained serious.

"I mean, my area of expertise is human bones, and these aren't human. Perhaps if I had more of the skeleton…" She continued to peer at the long bone, turning it in her hands. "The animal was probably elderly… It must have died a year ago, last winter. If I had to make an educated guess."

She stood up, fumbling at the side of her vest, to put the vertebrae in her pocket.

"You're bringing those back to camp with you?"

"Why not? I can still carry my firewood." She sounded slightly defensive, as if she had to prove she would not shirk her camp duties, not even for academic inquiry.

"Okay…" Booth shrugged. "No problem. You can have all the bones you want."

She probably wanted to examine them in more detail. Maybe call up some colleague who knew all about deer bones. Or even bring them home as a souvenir. None of it would surprise him anymore. In fact…

He watched her try to pick up her abandoned pile of firewood, while holding this deer humerus in one hand.

In fact, he loved her for it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I had fun reading a couple horror stories about coin-operated showers, from my reviewers last chapter. Any other personal anecdotes, or comments about this section, I would be glad to hear them.


	71. Chapter 71

**Part 71**

At the campfire that night, Brennan surprised Booth by producing the ingredients for s'mores.

"Bones!" he laughed, helping her remove the chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows from their grocery bag. "You know what s'mores are! I'm shocked."

"I did go on family trips," she said with a smile. "I wasn't completely cut off from knowledge of popular culture."

They were sitting at his site again, in the low folding chairs, watching the last glow of the sun disappearing behind the hills.

Booth held up the bag of marshmallows and squinted at the ingredients. "I would never have thought you'd eat something this… artificial. I can't even pronounce half these things."

"Well," Brennan reasoned, "consuming them once in a while isn't going to do any lasting damage."

They both got up to search for sticks they could use to toast marshmallows, and by the time they settled back next to the fire, it was nearly dark.

Booth impaled a marshmallow on his stick and leaned toward the flames. "Okay, now, you know the best technique for this, right? You have to find a nice little pocket of coals right at the base of the fire…"

"Because if you hold it too close to the flames it can catch fire and be ruined," Brennan finished.

"That's right, Bones. So," he prompted, "how did you learn this? Family camping trips?"

She nodded, and proceeded to tell him about one visit to a national park when she was about eight years old.

"My parents were in one tent, and Russ and I were in another. It was very windy, and our tent fell in. My parents must have been really worried, thinking we'd be hurt, or terrified—but when they pulled the tent off us, Russ and I were just laughing. I don't remember waking up and being afraid at all. It was like…" she smiled, "being in a cocoon. It was fun. We got to stay up in the middle of the night, looking at the stars and the storm clouds, while our mom and dad tried to fix the tent."

Booth smiled too, thinking, that's my fearless Brennan.

Before crime and disappearances and foster care. Before she ever had reason to get claustrophobic.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

They had each eaten a couple s'mores, laughing when Booth's marshmallow fell off the stick and melted into charred goop among the coals.

Brennan went to her site to get her hat, and returned to find him carving a small hunk of wood with a pocket knife.

She asked him about it, while gathering up the leftover s'mores fixings and putting them back into their bag.

"Just a little something for Parker." He held it up, turning it back and forth. "I think it's going to be a bear. Either that or a bird." He laughed. "Whichever is easier."

Brennan stood by the fire, warming her hands. "They say that Michelangelo believed the shape was already in the marble; he just had to liberate it."

"Yeah, well… a bear is a lot easier to 'liberate' than, say, a deer. 'Cause it's basically a block shape with ears and big feet. Not some graceful thing with long legs." He watched his partner in the flickering light of the fire and thought, that description applies to Bones, too.

She asked to see the carving, and he handed it to her. Standing by his chair, she turned it in her hands. "It looks like a bear already." When she gave it back, she sounded impressed. "I didn't know you could do that."

"I have many skills." He said it brazenly and without thinking. "Come closer and I'll show you a few more." His eyebrows arched up and down with over-the-top innuendo.

Brennan was standing some feet away, her face half in shadow from the fire. He expected to see exasperation, at his ego. But for a second, curiosity gleamed instead. She would take him seriously—call his bluff. And then, if she came and presented herself in front of him, within touching distance, what would he do?

But now her mouth turned up in a slow smile. "Are we going undercover on this trip, _Tony_?" Bones shifted her weight, putting one hand on her hip. "But I didn't bring any red lipstick. And Roxy isn't exactly the camping type."

Booth gaped at his partner, wearing her hiking vest, her plain gray hat pulled down to her ears, and tilting her hips in a purposefully provocative manner.

He did the only thing he could, and laughed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When they were ready to go to sleep, Booth got up to walk Brennan back to her campsite. She objected, of course, arguing that nothing could possibly happen during a two-hundred yard walk. But she let him accompany her anyway.

Their flashlights made twin bobbing beams on the grass. Booth walked her to the entrance of her tent, and Brennan was about to tell him goodnight.

"I forgot to ask," she said, "whether those amorous neighbors kept you awake last night."

"Oh," he grunted. "No. I think I heard them, but either they were quieter, or I was more sound asleep. So I wasn't actually kept awake. Good thing, too, because I was considering arresting them for drug possession, so I could have some peace and quiet. And…" he yawned. "I'm going to need my sleep, if I keep doing hikes as long as that one today."

"Well…" Brennan hesitated with her hand on the tent flap. "Goodnight."

Booth had recovered from looking sleepy. "Don't I get a goodnight kiss?" He leaned a little closer to her. "_Roxy_?"

She paused for the briefest moment, before his mischievousness caught on. "Settle down, tiger. Only if you're lucky." She smacked him on the arm, and he grinned.

For another second, Brennan let herself consider it.

It would be so easy to continue role playing. The way Booth was leaning close, his shoulders blotting out the trees and the cold night breeze. His eyes black in the darkness, but glittering.

With no Sweets to request it, no suspects to fool… They could just be Tony and Roxy. Candid, sexy, unreserved.

But Booth's smile was fading into seriousness. And Brennan would not stop to analyze whether it meant passion, or uncertainty, or fear.

She knew her own expression had turned grave, and decided to avert further conversation.

"Tony and Roxy wouldn't go camping," she murmured.

Then she ducked into her tent and didn't look back.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan couldn't fall asleep that night.

Their brief banter as alter-egos had started her thinking, as had Booth's comment about solving a murder in the woods.

Perhaps the characters in her current novel should do just that: find a murder mystery in the forest, flirt and follow clues, and finally have sex in a big red tent.

Brennan pulled the sleeping bag up to her chin, staring at the shadowy ceiling of her shelter.

Yes, if this trip had been a scene in her novel…

Kathy and Andy would discover a victim in the woods. There was a criminal on the loose, stalking and killing, leaving the remains for hikers to find. The fictional partners tracked down leads, through a blending of their unique skills, and eventually discovered the perpetrator. The case culminated in a dramatic chase through dark woods. Then, once the crook was in custody, the pair returned, triumphant, to their campsite. They would cook a hearty meal over the fire. Maybe they would even toast marshmallows. They would look at the stars, and then they would fall into a sleeping bag for some exuberant sex.

In fact, another part of Brennan's brain pointed out, this trip would be a fine opportunity to sleep with Booth. Not just _write _about Kathy and Andy.

Because out here, the usual rules did not apply. Why else would Booth have teased her the way he had?

For this trip, she thought, we're not crime fighters or work partners. We're just Brennan and Booth.

That fact made her feel free and unburdened, but also tired and frightened.

First, because they would resume their draining schedule once they returned. True, they had proven themselves in the field together, and were essentially recovered from events in the suite. But, although Booth had been joking about the bones—_please tell me they're not human_—she could understand the dread she'd heard behind the words.

And, because outside of work, when it was just the two of them… perhaps the possibilities were _too _freeing.

Brennan watched the shadow of a swaying tree branch, outlined against her tent.

Sleeping with Booth would make things complicated, somehow.

It should have been easy. Just as it should have been easy for her to call a previous sex partner and invite him for a quick romp, to restore her confidence.

She sighed and rolled over, then squirmed when a bumpy patch of ground dug into her hip.

_It's too soon. _

That was what an indeterminate part of her mind said, in regard to sex. (She supposed Booth would call it her gut.) But she didn't need to do the deed—with Booth or anyone—just to prove something to herself.

So. Brennan snuggled deeper into her sleeping bag, deciding to sleep. This plot idea _could _happen in the story she was working on. But that, at least for now, was where it would stay. In fiction.


	72. Chapter 72

**A/N: **Many thanks to Amilyn, for inspiring some of B&B's reactions to their red-tent neighbors. I borrowed some lines of yours, right from our brainstorming. (And credit to adangeli, for demanding that those neighbors play more of a role. :)

**Part 72**

Brennan woke suddenly in the dark, her heart pounding. She had heard a sound, but couldn't identify it.

Then it came again: a panicked shout. She knew it was Booth.

Shoving the sleeping bag away, she grabbed a flashlight and stuffed her feet into her boots. She ran across the grass and pushed through the thicket of trees, rather than take the longer route to the road.

Should she grab a heavy branch, for a weapon? Was there a bear crashing into Booth's tent? Was there an actual killer here, coming after them?

As she approached the campsite, she cast her flashlight over it, looking for signs of trouble. There were none.

Just Booth, a gray silhouette, sitting in the entrance to his tent. Brennan called his name, lowering her light so as not to blind him.

"Bones?" His head turned toward her. "Sorry. I didn't know—I didn't mean to yell."

"What happened?" She stood over him, seeing strange shadows under his eyes and nose, from her flashlight.

"Bad dream," he said. "I'm fine."

But he didn't sound fine. His breath panted a little, and his hands shook.

She said, "Can I sit?"

He nodded and moved over. Brennan sat down next to him, just inside his tent, pulling off her boots and folding her legs in front of her. Then she put her flashlight facedown on the ground, pulling at the handle to raise the light source, turning it into a camping lantern.

Booth watched what she was doing, and said, "Hey, that's pretty cool. Why doesn't mine do that?"

"I borrowed it from Hodgins. But I should get one of my own; they're very useful."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I should get one, too."

It seemed that simple exchange had helped Booth calm down. He was sitting cross-legged, staring at the circle of lantern light pooling on the tent floor. Brennan saw that he was wearing waffle-weave long underwear, in a hunter green shade. Away from the light it blended into shadowy black, down his right arm and side.

She said, "Would it help if… Do you want to talk about it?"

Booth rolled his shoulders restlessly. "It was… You know—crazy dream stuff." He took a deep breath, and released it. Brennan waited.

"It started with us finding more bones out in the woods. Like, a huge mound of them. You were sitting right in the middle of it, right on top, and of course you thought it was the most fascinating thing ever. There were deer and human bones, and you were just… serious and excited and squinty. But I…"

Brennan decided not to comment on his imprecise, contradictory adjectives.

"I had a really bad feeling," Booth said. His voice was heavy with foreboding. She glanced at his hands, resting on his knees. He would scrunch his fingers into the thermal fabric and then release them, seemingly unaware he was doing it.

"Meanwhile," he continued, "Parker shows up, and is running around chasing bats, that are flying all through the trees. I was afraid he'd get lost, or fall into a ravine or something… so I ran after him, but I couldn't keep up. I couldn't keep track of him in the woods. And then, there was this bear. I was sure it would kill Parker or eat him, but at the same time…"

A cold breeze blew into the tent, ruffling the entrance flap. Booth shivered, and Brennan wondered what he would do if she wrapped him in her arms and rubbed him until he warmed up.

"These criminals," he said, "probably the ones who killed all the people and left those bones… They were going to get you."

He met Brennan's eyes, and she saw no joking, no dry expression mocking himself for an illogical dream. Just raw worry and fear.

"Anders was there too," Booth muttered, "and he was going to—maybe he would—hurt you again."

Imprecise, Brennan thought. But she would not demand that he say _rape_, or say _kill_, for the sake of accuracy.

"And…" Booth's voice grated in his throat. "Between you and Parker… I had to decide who to save."

Brennan sucked in her breath. Then she reached out and put her hand on his arm.

He did give a wry smile, then. "Not that you can't save yourself, I know. But you were in these dark woods all by yourself, except for a pile of bones. And when you're in this… anthropology mode… sometimes you don't notice what's going on around you."

"So," she prompted softly, "what happened?"

He looked down at the lantern's glow. "I just barely saved Parker. I had my gun, and shot the bear, so it wasn't a threat anymore. Parker seemed okay, so I ran back to you. But… you were lying among the bones, and you looked… I didn't know if you were…"

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Brennan could imagine what he had seen. She had been dead. Or bleeding. Or lying with her clothes torn, from some kind of assault. Booth had nearly died in her dreams, too. Or been permanently damaged, his veins shot up with an unknown toxin.

She had kept her hand on his arm, on the soft-rough fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. Now he moved his hand to partly cover hers, looking down at her fingertips as if they were an unrealized treasure.

"That sounds like a typical dream," Brennan said, "that the brain creates from a conglomerate of everyday elements, and influenced by stress hormones such as…"

Booth glanced up, brows wrinkling with grim humor and skepticism; as if to say, _That's all you have to offer me? Science?_

She hesitated, then admitted softly, "But I know how terrifying they can be."

His shoulders hunched in another involuntary shiver, and Brennan pushed forward onto her knees, so she could hug him. Her arms went around his shoulders, and he, without pause, leaned into her.

His skin felt very warm under the fabric, despite the cold night. But it was an awkward position: Booth sitting cross-legged, while she kneeled over him. Brennan realized she was leaning quite hard against him, to avoid overbalancing. But his shoulders supported her easily and, if anything, he pulled her closer. His hands molded themselves around her back. The fine stubble of his beard scratched her ear.

He let her go first, and she shifted back to a sitting position.

Booth rubbed a hand over his eyes. "God, what time is it, anyway?" He was wearing a watch, and answered his own question. "Three a.m."

When he glanced back at her, his eyes dropped swiftly over her body. Sitting near the open tent flap, they were both getting chilled, and Brennan realized he could probably see her nipples through the silk fabric of her shirt. She crossed her arms over her breasts, but if Booth had noticed, he didn't give any indication.

"So, Bones… I have just one question." The confidence was back in his voice, and his eyebrows lifted. "Leopard print?"

She looked down at her patterned long underwear. "Oh. Yes. Angela insisted I get this one, when we went shopping. Even though a solid color would have been perfectly serviceable… She claimed my eyes lit up when I saw this."

"And?" Booth seemed very amused by the anecdote. "Was she right?"

Brennan raised one shoulder. "I admit that I… liked it. That it makes me happy for some inexplicable reason. So I thought… why not?"

"Yeah," Booth said. "Why the hell not?"

He smiled at her, smiled with his eyes and his mouth. She found herself glancing down his body. The close-fitting green shirt over his broad torso. The well-structured shoulders narrowing to a fit waist. The solid curves of his thigh muscles.

"We should get back to sleep," she blurted. "Will you… be all right? You know, after…"

He nodded, serious again.

Brennan considered offering to stay. She could get her sleeping bag and come back. Logically speaking, if he were to have another bad dream, he would wake up and see right away that she was unharmed.

But before she could say anything, Booth cocked his head with a curious expression. He seemed to be listening, and then dismay spread over his face.

Brennan heard it, too. A man groaning, and a woman sighing, with obvious sensual pleasure.

"Oh, no," Booth said. "The neighbors. Don't they ever sleep? It's three in the morning!"

"Perhaps they woke up when you shouted," she suggested, "and after realizing there was no danger, decided to take advantage of the time."

"Yeah," Booth echoed dryly, "take advantage."

The woman was now voicing rhythmic, breathy cries, while the man grunted encouragement and endearments.

Brennan saw how uncomfortable Booth looked, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting unnecessarily with the sleeping bag next to him. His expression seemed embarrassed, but somehow sorry as well.

"You're right," he said abruptly, "we should get some sleep. Why don't you get back to your tent, you shouldn't have to listen to this." He shot her an anxious look, as if he hadn't meant to say that. "I mean… at least one of us can have some peace and quiet…"

From next door, they heard synchronous outcries of pleasure, and Booth cringed. Brennan couldn't help smiling, now, at his pained expression. And the ridiculousness of the situation.

"Booth?" She was tempted to tease him, but his face still looked too somber.

At her smile, his mouth turned up with a confused sort of hope.

"Booth," she said again. "This isn't… Did you think this would bother me? The mere proximity to sex?"

"Well…" He seemed ready to squirm out of the tent. "Yeah."

"It doesn't," she told him. "This isn't going to… It's not the same at all. Because…" A trace of playfulness colored her tone. "It's clearly consensual."

The sounds from next door confirmed her statement, and Booth smiled nervously.

Brennan found herself searching her feelings, to reassure him. "Sex and rape are fairly clearly defined. And this doesn't remind me of Anders. It's more likely to remind me of the last person I slept with, because we…"

Booth's eyes widened for a second. He probably didn't need to hear that.

"I suppose," she said, "thinking about the neighbors in a certain way might cause… But it's not at all like some of the…triggers." She met his gaze. "They're having a good time, Booth. I'm happy for them."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Really?" he asked her.

He didn't care that he was losing sleep after a long hike. He didn't care that the coldness of the ground was seeping into his skin through the thin tent floor.

He just cared that Brennan had come to him when he was scared. That she was sitting with him in this shadowy tent, with her tangled hair and her silk animal-print pajamas.

He just cared that she was okay.

She told him, "Yes."

Her blue eyes were—for the most part—untroubled. "Of course, there are times that I still… but I'm not just putting a good face on things, like we sometimes do for Sweets. It's okay," she repeated. "Really."

Booth nodded, and exhaled.

They sat still for a minute. He was about to comment about the newfound quiet from their neighbors… when he heard muffled voices and laughter.

"God," he groaned, "these kids are like rabbits. They might just start all over again."

Bones took that at face value. "I imagine rabbits would be less noisy. But it seems like we have two options." She uncrossed her legs and reached for her boots. "We can either go ask them to restrain themselves, or we can both move to my tent where we'll be out of earshot."

Booth gaped at her. "Those are my options?"

She raised her brows, as if daring him to either object or find another solution.

"Here's an idea," he said. "I could just sleep with a pillow over my head."

"Oh," Brennan admitted, "yes. As long as the fabric didn't cause you to suffocate in your sleep. But my idea would be much safer and more comfortable for everyone."

Booth was tempted to accept. He imagined rolling his sleeping bag into a haphazard bundle, and clomping over to her site in unlaced boots.

It would be quiet, and he could sleep. But… she had a small two-person tent, like he did; and if one of them rolled too far to one side, they'd bump into the other. He would lie there in the dark, hearing every rustle as Bones shifted position. He would hear her breathing slow and deepen into sleep.

It was a simple choice. Appealing, and intimate. But perhaps not the gentlemanly thing to do.

"Thanks, Bones," he told her, "but that's really not necessary."

She picked up her flashlight, looking doubtful. "We should still find a less temporary solution. It's not good for you to go short on sleep."

"I'll be fine here," he said. "I promise."

They said goodnight, and Booth watched her walk back to her site. The flashlight silhouetted her legs, and she looked like a black and tawny animal slipping out of sight behind the trees.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I couldn't decide how to end this section. How'd I do?

Booth really is the hero, huh? His dreams are all about trying to save people, whereas Brennan's are more about her personal safety. I'm not sure if that's cliché, but given the plot of the story, it makes sense.


	73. Chapter 73

**Part 73**

Booth slung his duffel bag into the back of the truck, shaking raindrops from his hair in the same motion. "You can make all the excuses you want, Bones. But facts are facts. I beat you to the top."

It was their last day at the campground, and despite the gray, drizzling weather, they had gone for a hike. Their climb up the long, steep trail had turned into a competition.

"That is not a _fact_," Brennan said. "You did not _beat _me to the top, you merely arrived at the trail marker a few steps ahead. And that was only because my shoes slipped on some loose gravel. There was _less _gravel on your side of the path."

She handed him her neatly-folded but still-damp tent, and he stowed it in the car.

"That's all part of the deal," he asserted. "Picking the best route, _and _being the fastest. Which I clearly am."

He smirked, and she glared at him.

They continued bickering all the way out of the campground, until they turned the car onto the main road, and headed toward D.C.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Speeding along the highway, the closer they got to the city, Booth could feel distance and anxiety creeping in between them. Like the drizzling rain that had beaded harmlessly on their clothing during the hike, but now seeped into the fabric, chill and clammy against the skin.

They'd both been silent for many miles, when Bones finally spoke.

"Do you think the trial's over?" Her voice had that low, cautious tone they'd often used with each other, before the camping trip.

"You mean _over _over?" Booth asked. "I don't think the verdict's been returned yet…"

She shook her head; that wasn't what she meant.

"The lawyers might've wrapped up on Friday," he said, "or else they will Monday. Based on the rate they were going."

He watched another mile marker pass the car, drawing them closer to metropolitan D.C. Then he glanced over at Bones. The muddy hiking pants. The damp hair curling on her shoulders.

"How would you feel," he asked, "if the verdict had already come down, and we missed it?"

She shrugged, dismissing him. "That's hypothetical."

"But," he insisted, "just say it had."

She looked out the window, not wanting to answer. Booth waited.

"It would be a relief." Bones turned her solemn gaze on him. "But disappointing, too. It would all be over, and we would've missed it—without even thinking about it. Caroline or Angela would just tell us when we got back, and that would've been it."

"Yeah," he agreed, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "That would've been it."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He dropped Bones off at her apartment, then returned to his, to unpack, and call Parker, so he could hear about the boy's weekend.

A short time later, however, he was pulling up outside Brennan's apartment once more, to return a pair of her hiking socks that had somehow found their way into his bag.

When Bones opened the door and Booth stepped in, he saw Angela sitting on the sofa, digging a fork through a plastic takeout container.

"Hey, Agent Studly," she greeted him. "I was glad to see you brought Bren home from your woodland adventure in one piece."

"Angela," he said patiently. "Create any masterpieces while we were gone?"

"Actually, yes." She glanced at Brennan, who looked like she wanted to correct the assumption that their trip had involved any danger.

Bones returned to the couch next to her friend, asking Booth if he wanted to sit down and have something to eat. He recognized the logo on the boxes as that new organic vegetarian place, whose meals cost a fortune.

"No, thanks, I already ate. I just came to return these." He pulled the socks out of his pocket and tossed them to Brennan.

She caught them, and, as Booth could have expected, Angela's eyes narrowed. Then her gaze shifted gleefully between the two of them.

"Brennan," she said with exaggerated clarity, "how did an article of _your _clothing get into _Booth's _things?"

Bones reached for one of the salad concoctions, looking nonchalant. "I imagine it was after one of our hikes. We would take our shoes and socks off and relax for a while. Because even well-fitting boots can cause blisters after a particularly challenging route."

Booth found himself wanting to tease Angela. He came over and leaned against the back of the sofa, next to her. "And," he said, "because we were sharing a site for the last couple nights, it would've been easy enough for me to grab her socks along with mine, and not notice."

"Sharing a site," Angela repeated, "for a couple nights?" She seemed to know she was being teased, but raised her eyebrows at him, craving details. A second later she turned to Brennan and tapped her on the arm. "You didn't tell me that."

"It didn't seem relevant. And it was actually one night, not two."

Booth decided he might be here a while. So he hung up his coat, helped himself to a beer, and sat down in the chair next to the couch.

"You want to tell her the whole sad story, Bones?" he asked. "About our trusty campground companions?"

"It's not a _sad _story," she corrected. "A bit ironic at the end, I suppose, but…"

He and Bones told Angela about their vociferous neighbors, and their differing opinions about what they should do about it. Because Angela was so keen on the particulars ("_What was Brennan doing in your tent at three a.m_.?"), he had to explain about his nightmare, but at least not in detail.

Booth had been content to move his campsite farther away from "the giant red tent-o-love," as Angela immediately labeled it, but Bones had thought it would be simpler to say something to the couple.

"So, there I was the next morning," Booth said, leaning back in the armchair, "busy taking down my tent, while unbeknownst to me, Bones goes over there to confront them."

"I didn't _confront _them," she objected.

"They were sitting at their picnic table," Booth went on, "having a nice peaceful breakfast of oatmeal, when Bones walks straight up to them…" He gestured for her to continue the story.

"I introduced myself, and then politely pointed out that, as a courtesy to people around them who are trying to sleep, they might consider rescheduling their amorous activities for a different time of day."

"Bren…" Angela chuckled. "You didn't."

"Yes, I did. I thought they should be aware of how others perceive them, and how well sound carries in some locations. I have lived and worked with people of very different cultures," she defended herself, "and I have learned by now how to be direct and diplomatic at the same time. You," she turned to Booth, "did not have to physically drag me away."

"I'm sorry, Bones. But yes, I did." He tried to look serious, but his eyes crinkled with laughter.

Angela's did too, and she gave her friend's arm a fond pat. "That's my Brennan."

Bones was ticked off, Booth thought, because they found the tale so amusing; but she told her part of it with good humor.

Now he heard an earnestness in her voice when she said, "It wasn't purely an issue of courtesy, Booth, but health as well. If we were doing difficult hikes every day, your lack of sufficient sleep could have led to injury or illness."

"Aw, thanks, Bones. You see," he leaned toward Angela conspiratorially, "this whole thing was just because she was worried about me. But you still haven't heard the best part." He said it before Bones could contradict him about being worried.

"Yeah?" Angela prompted.

"I had already moved my tent over to her site, right? And she had gone over there to give the kids this big lecture about their love life. And then? They were packing up and leaving that same day."

"So you could have avoided the whole thing." Angela shook her head, still smiling. She had produced a large bar of chocolate and was breaking it into bite-size chunks. She handed them to Booth and Brennan.

Bones ate hers, saying, "I believe that an honest, matter-of-fact approach is best in the majority of situations."

"Oh," Booth countered, "but as an anthropologist, you should follow the rules of the culture you're in. And _this _culture says you don't go around asking people to be more quiet while they're having sex. She even said," he turned to Angela, "_I'm glad your sexual relationship is healthy and enjoyable, but…"_

"That's just your repressed Catholic upbringing talking," Bones shot back. "He's very skittish talking about sex. He actually grabbed my arm to prevent me from finishing my sentence." She took another piece of chocolate, as Angela offered it. "What would you have done, Ange?"

"Me?" The artist tilted her head, considering. "To begin with, I would avoid camping at all costs. But I might've done what you did, Sweetie. Just in a different way." She smiled slyly. "I probably would've asked them what techniques or positions they were using, to get such an obviously positive response."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth had finished his beer, and the girls had finished the chocolate, before he thought to ask.

He looked at Angela, reluctant, but needing to know. "Have you," he said, "been following the trial?"

Bones answered for her. "She's been receiving updates from Caroline. You guessed right; they're giving closing statements on Monday. Then the jury will start deliberating."

"Caroline thought that with so many charges," Angela put in, "it's not going to be a really quick decision. So we shouldn't worry if it drags on a little. The middle of the week or later, we should probably hear something."

Angela changed the subject, then, and neither of them objected.

Booth reached to put his empty beer bottle on the coffee table, using it as an excuse to study Brennan for a moment. When she'd mentioned the trial, she'd sounded calm and straightforward. But Booth thought there was too little color on her face. Her cheeks lacked the healthy flush he'd been used to seeing in the great outdoors. Even her eyes seemed too crystal, not green and not blue.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Thank you to Amilyn for brainstorming! After last chapter I was all tired, whining about 'what am I going to do _now _with B/B's camping trip…?' And she's like, you could just bring them home right away. Hey, that's brilliant!

**A/N 2**: People, we are actually approaching the end. I must figure out the best order for our final bunch of scenes. Hopefully that process will not put me behind schedule for posting, although the chapters might be on the short side. I've probably claimed that before, that the end is near. But this time it really is. You know, relatively speaking. :)


	74. Chapter 74

**A/N: **Thank you to Amilyn for yet more brainstorming sessions. I could not have developed this angst without you!

Confidential to adangeli: this section includes a couple lines from a review you sent. Can you find them? :)

**Part 74**

On Monday, Brennan returned to the Jeffersonian.

Morning light slanted through the window of her office, while she stood in the doorway buttoning her lab coat and smoothing her hair into a ponytail. She looked at her books, her model skulls, her artifacts. She breathed the purified air deep into her lungs, and then plunged into work.

There was plenty to do. Assessing Zack's findings about Limbo skeletons, catching up on email and phone messages, and viewing x-rays of fleshy dead bodies that Cam wanted to consult about. In addition, one of the museum directors requested her advice on an upcoming project, but she put him off, in favor of poring over an unidentified set of remains.

At lunchtime, Angela pulled her away from her examination of a man's fibula, reminding her to eat.

When she went back to her office, she found a message from Sweets. The young psychologist had gotten right to the point: "The two of you have been off camping, you've missed sessions, and the trial is coming to an end—you need to get in here."

Brennan called Booth first, and they decided to get the meeting over with as soon as possible. Dialing Sweets on conference call, they bullied him into giving them the first appointment Tuesday morning.

As she walked back down the corridor, Brennan realized she had put Anders' trial out of her mind. She had meant to do something other than let it pass her by. But it was too late: the lawyers had given their closing arguments this morning, and court would probably be in recess until tomorrow, when the jury would start deliberating.

Brennan stood over the exam table where bones rested in neat anatomical order. I should at least have sent Angela, she thought, to listen and report back on the summary arguments.

Before she testified, she had reminded herself not to worry about things until they happened—especially things over which she had no control. But maybe she could have predicted what the jury would decide, if she'd been better informed. With more data, like an evaluation of the lawyer's arguments…

She put on her gloves, and picked up the fibula, fingering its articulations with the tibia.

I never wanted to hear the case in Anders' defense.

Caroline has done her job. I have to trust that.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan worked through dinner, but decided to take a quick visit to her gym before going home, because she had neglected her martial arts and weight training these past weeks.

She found, however, that she was more tired from the hiking trip than she realized, and settled for a lighter workout.

At her apartment, she ate dinner, read a journal article, and went to bed. Turning off the bedside lamp, she remembered that she and Booth would see Sweets first thing tomorrow. What would he want them to discuss this time? But of course, it was no use speculating.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan dreamed that she was sitting next to Booth in Sweets' office.

The therapist wanted to hear all about their red-tent neighbors, and even about the chapter of Brennan's novel that she had started working on.

Then Sweets turned to Booth and said, "You didn't sleep together while you were camping? It was the perfect opportunity! I mean, _someone _has to get laid on this trip. Even if it's just Kathy and Andy."

Brennan never knew what Booth's response was, because voices were talking very loudly in the next room. It was the couple from the red tent, and Brennan had to go ask them to be quiet.

But when she went through the door, everything looked different. She was not in the FBI building anymore; she was in the courtroom where the verdict was about to be read.

Brennan looked at the rows of people in the audience. Anders was there, somewhere toward the front. But the lighting was dim, and it made her uneasy that she could not see him. Booth, Caroline and Angela all sat together, but off to one side, so she was isolated.

The judge began to read the jury's decision, for the charges against Anders. "Not guilty," he said. "We find the defendant not guilty."

Brennan felt her insides chill with fear.

Not guilty? That couldn't be right. Not for _every_ charge. Something must be wrong. The jury members were not rational. Maybe they had been corrupted—bribed or coerced.

Before she had time for any other reaction, noise erupted from the back of the courtroom. A large figure shoved through the doors. It was Rawling, and he had a gun. He wore a hat pulled low over his ears, like in the surveillance videos. He raised his arm to threaten the judge, and then without hesitation, shot at Booth, Angela, and Caroline.

Brennan heard herself yelling, "No! That's impossible. You're supposed to be dead!"

The next second, Anders grabbed her arm. "But I'm not." He grinned, looking just like he had in the suite: eager and menacing.

Rawling and Anders dragged her to one side, where a door opened to another room.

She tried to see what had happened to her friends, but couldn't get a view of them. Someone, maybe all three, needed immediate medical attention. She had to help them; she could not let herself be taken. Not again.

But Rawling's arm grabbed her around the waist, hauling her backward, and her feet found no traction on the floor. She could only clutch the doorframe in a last-ditch effort to hang on.

Now Anders grasped her hips, pulling her back. His fingers gouged into her flesh.

Brennan clenched both hands on the doorframe as hard as she could. The wood was too soft; it started to crack and give way. She dug her fingers into it, feeling her nails chip and then break, feeling splinters drive themselves into her skin.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Brennan woke with her face crushed into the pillow and one hand digging painfully hard into the mattress. She sat up, panting, with sweat slick between her breasts, and the muscles in her hand cramping. Just as they had when she'd struggled to untie tightly knotted ropes.

Gradually, she calmed her breathing. She untangled herself from the sheets, smoothing them out.

Nothing had truly happened to her in the dream. It looked like her friends had been shot, but she'd woken up before anything else could occur.

Still. It was the threat of being pulled into that room, alone with the two criminals. She'd been desperate not to let it happen again.

Brennan lay back down, feeling limp as the adrenaline dissipated.

She did not turn on the light, or re-check the lock on her front door. But she could not get back to sleep.

She listened to the faint sounds of cars passing the apartment. She stared at the gray-outlined window. Rolled onto her side, and watched the digits on her clock tick slowly through the minutes. She was still awake after one hour, then two.

Finally, she turned on the radio. Unpleasant music, and irritating disc jockeys. But it was something to listen to.

Eventually Brennan dozed off, waking just before her alarm. She glowered at the numbers on the clock, that she had already spent too much time watching. But she might as well get up.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

By the time she left the apartment, it was a little early for the meeting with Sweets, but too late to accomplish anything beforehand.

At the FBI building, Brennan went to the waiting room outside Sweets' office. No one was there, no receptionist, and his office door was locked.

She glanced around, at the potted plants sitting by the window. Magazines strewn on the coffee table. Inkblot pictures hanging on the wall.

Now, she was sleepy. She sat down and leaned her head against the back of the couch.

That dream, Brennan thought, did not reflect reality. I never grabbed the doorframe of the suite, to keep from being taken. And Rawling's presence should have alerted me it was a dream. I should have realized the fabrication, and woken myself up.

_Should have._

She knew it was not rational. She knew it was a waste of time. But she couldn't help thinking, If there was a moment, an opportunity I could have changed things…

I could have fought back more. I could have prevented the rape, or Booth being drugged.

If not that first moment when Anders pulled the guns, then later: when he'd untied her from the table, intending to haul her into the other room. That's when Booth had kicked at Rawling, and she had struck at Anders. Those few seconds of stalemate as they all weighed their options—decisive action could have ended things right there.

Anders had turned his back, to get the syringe from his bag. Rawling kept his gun leveled at the two of them. Brennan had enough leeway on her roped wrists at that point—she could have attacked Rawling.

With Anders distracted, she could have gotten the gun. But where had the second weapon been? If Anders had it in his belt, she would not have had time. She would have had to knock Rawling's gun away, immediately dive for it, and shoot him. Booth could not help, handcuffed as he was, and she'd have had to shoot Anders, next. Before he could fire at her and Booth.

That would've been his likeliest response, she guessed. To simply shoot them, out of revenge for foiling his plans or incapacitating his guard.

Unless he was too cool and collected for that.

Brennan shifted position on the waiting room sofa. Psychology and motive. I hate trying to understand psychology and motive.

Going over past events was a fruitless exercise. She knew that. And, lying awake this morning, she had not thought these things. But now, for whatever reason, her brain kept processing the what-ifs.

That moment when Anders' back was turned—that would have been the time to resist.

Before they could inject Booth with the sedative. Before they could take me into the next room.

We would have suffered rope burns and minor emotional stress. But there would have been no chemical invading Booth's veins. No man invading my body.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sweets walked in a moment later, and Brennan blinked at him, reminding herself where she was. The psychologist carried a small briefcase in one hand and a large cup of coffee in the other.

"Dr. Brennan," he said. "Were you napping?" She thought he sounded amused, more than concerned.

"I was thinking."

His eyes narrowed, and she felt she had to explain.

"I didn't sleep well last night, that's all. How are you this morning?" Perhaps the routine question would distract him from questioning her.

"Just fine, thank you. I was—"

At that moment Booth came sweeping in. "Bones," he greeted her. "Sweets." He clapped the kid on the back, almost making him spill his coffee. "Come on—let's get this show on the road, so we can get back to our normal lives."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **It's better to break here with a minor cliffhanger, rather than a major one later. Trust me.


	75. Chapter 75

**A/N: **When I mentioned the word 'cliffhanger' last chapter, people started freaking out. My dears, I said to trust me. I had to have that small cliffie last time, so as NOT to have one this time. Completing this double-length chapter wasn't easy! Now I'm creatively spent and have to figure out what's next.

Thank you, Amilyn, for the exceptional beta work on both parts of this chapter, and for the angsty ideas that helped inspire whole thing.

**Part 75**

Brennan did not know how Sweets could zero in on the exact things she _didn't _want to talk about. After some perfunctory questions about their camping trip, he asked why she had slept poorly.

"A bad dream?" he repeated. "Would you tell us about it?"

She hesitated.

She looked at Sweets' somber, inquisitive expression. His customary suit and tie, against the drab color scheme of his office.

Brennan realized that her reticence might tell him—and Booth—as much as an answer.

She glanced at her partner next to her. Worry lines had appeared on his forehead at the mention of her dream, but he gave her a slight nod of encouragement.

She hunched her shoulders, putting both hands flat on the smooth leather sofa. Then she told them, concisely. About the courtroom from her nightmare. Anders, not guilty. Rawling, alive, and firing a gun. The way both men had grabbed her. The way she'd woken up clinging to an imaginary doorframe.

As she finished speaking, Booth's elbow made a little jerk, as if he wanted to reach out to her, but thought better of it.

Sweets was nodding attentively. "See, this is why dreams are so vital to discuss. Yours brings up some significant issues that we haven't had a chance to explore." He glanced at Booth, but kept his main focus on Brennan.

"In the dream, it was crucial that you didn't _let _yourself be taken, into the next room?"

"Yes…"

"And in reality, did you feel you had _let _them take you into the other room?"

"Why are you asking her that?" Booth demanded. "She didn't _let _them do _any_thing."

But Sweets held up a hand for him to be quiet. "Please, I think this is very important." He leaned forward, eyes trained on Brennan.

If she could evaluate his attitude, she would say it was intent and sincere. That reassured her, because he sometimes acted the way Angela did when she was eager for gossip. So she considered his question. "Did I feel I'd _let _them? Yes, in a way, I did."

Booth shifted uneasily, but Sweets was nodding again.

"It would have been reckless to fight," Brennan added. "We still weren't sure what they intended, or whether they would enforce their threats. But…"

I could have fought harder, she thought again.

When the men had hustled her into the other room, they'd each taken one of her arms, shoving and dragging. She _had _fought: bucking and twisting in their grip. But she had not used every trick she knew. If she'd really put her mind to it, she could probably have broken free.

Instead, she'd put up a cursory struggle. Until Rawling had delivered a sharp elbow to her ribs, making her gasp for air. And that was all the time they'd needed to pull her over the threshold and shut the door.

"But?" Sweets reminded her she'd begun a comment and not finished it.

Brennan put one hand on the arm of the couch and, reluctantly, continued. "'Never let them take you away somewhere.' I heard that advice in one of my first self-defense classes. If someone accosts you in your home, they caution you not to fight. Stay passive and cooperative. Let the burglar have your money and valuables. Stay safe until he leaves.

"But if they try to take you somewhere—fight. Do not get forced into a car. Do not let yourself be taken.

"Obviously…" she took a breath, "moving from one hotel room to the next was not abduction. But… it felt very remote."

Booth had been fidgeting next to her, but now went still.

"Bones…" His voice sounded hoarse, and sorry, and gentle.

Brennan found she could not look at him, so she kept her eyes on the bonsai tree, resting on the table next to Sweets' chair.

Now the psychologist sat back and put his hands on the armrests. "This reminds me of something," he said, "if you'll humor the analogy for a moment. It was one of these animal experts who writes books and appears on TV. He said it's not the barking dog you should be worried about. It's the growling one.

"Barking is a way of announcing danger or calling for help. But the growling dog has given up barking and decided he is alone in the fight."

"Dogs," Brennan objected, "don't draw conclusions like that. They react to stimuli."

"True," Sweets said. "But is it a fair comparison?" He leaned forward. "Up until Anders and Rawling took you into the other room, you were the barking dog. But when that door closed—you were growling. And that means, _No one is going to come. I have to handle this myself_."

Brennan actually shivered.

She didn't know if Booth noticed, but he said, "What's the point of all this, Sweets? Because you just compared my partner to a dog. And made me feel even more guilty for not being able to help."

The two of them started arguing, but Brennan didn't listen.

Sweets was right, about how alone she'd felt. Even when they'd been tied up and threatened at gunpoint, she and Booth had been in it together. But when they were separated…

To distract herself, and interrupt their argument, she said, "Canine dentition would have been useful, to bite the criminals."

Booth and Sweets stopped to look at her.

"But," she amended, "they still had the weapons."

The corners of Booth's eyes crinkled, and he looked equally ready to cry or laugh.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan." Sweets drew their attention back, speaking with a kind, but more academic tone.

"Feeling like you 'let' the people in power do something… it's pretending you have some control, so as not to feel helpless. The illusion, then, is that you 'let' it happen, rather than being forced. And that can turn into self-blame, and guilt that is totally undeserved."

Booth and Brennan glanced at each other, and then away.

"Thinking that you 'let' the criminals take you… Or choosing not to resist too strongly, to protect yourselves from violent retaliation…" Sweets shifted his gaze between the two of them. "I have studied both men's profiles. And I'll be blunt: you did not have many options. When they grabbed you, Dr. Brennan, your choices were essentially, 'be hurt here, or be hurt there.' And those," Sweets said gently, "are false choices."

Brennan glanced at her partner again, and saw Booth looking increasingly grim. When he'd come in this morning, he'd been cheerful. But then she'd agreed to talk about her dream. And now, it was like they were right back in that hotel suite.

"I mean…" Sweets continued, "What if you _had _held onto the doorframe, like in your dream? They might have…" He hesitated, but Brennan met his gaze, challenging him to finish the sentence.

"They might not have left Agent Booth's presence, before harming you, Dr. Brennan."

This time, she looked away. Staring down at the floor, she said, very softly, "I thought of that."

She did not want to see her partner's reaction. Did not want to see the comprehension dawn on Booth's face: that he might have had to watch Anders rape her, or watch the fight with Rawling, when he'd fractured her ribs.

Brennan said, "I think that I… that we were lucky. Because they decided to go into the next room. And they decided not to kill us."

Sweets kept his voice quiet. "Your choices—_both _of your choices—were good ones. Because of the illegal activities, because of the weapons and threats… You did what you could, to prevent the situation from escalating further, and to stay in one piece."

It sounded to Brennan like he was soothing an untamed animal. Perhaps a growling dog. But this time, Booth was the one who needed it.

Because he was starting to—well, quiver. His legs were jittery, his hands clenching. He wouldn't look at anyone.

She hoped he would not get up and begin to punch unyielding surfaces.

And she didn't know how her next comments would affect him. But she wanted to tell Sweets that—for once—his interpretation made sense to her.

"I realize I didn't truly allow the criminals to isolate and mistreat me. But… that's how it seemed. And I didn't calculate it this way at the time… at least, not consciously. But if they were going to harm me… better it be out of sight." She glanced toward Sweets, rather than her partner, and her voice scratched in her throat. "I couldn't let them do that to Booth."

Sweets had been watching them both as if he expected a breakdown or an explosion.

It came, when Booth vaulted out of his chair. He stalked behind the couch, dragging one hand across the back of his neck. His jaw was tight and hard.

"Booth," Sweets began, but Booth shook his head violently, like he couldn't stand to hear anything—not reason, not assurances. Then he grabbed for the door, wrenched it open, and walked out.

Brennan immediately stood up. She looked once at Sweets, then followed in Booth's footsteps.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth walked blindly down the hall. Past offices and a water cooler, past fellow agents chatting over their morning coffee.

Brennan and Sweets—what they'd said—it caught him off guard in the worst way.

I'm not a fucking new recruit, he told himself. I've seen things, I've done things.

He knew the criminals had threatened Bones. He knew Rawling had drawn a knife. And described what he might do—to both of them—if she put up a serious fight.

But he hadn't thought of it in quite those terms.

_They might not have left Agent Booth's presence, before harming you, Dr. Brennan._

_I thought of that. But I couldn't let them do that to Booth._

No matter what Sweets said about power… Bones felt like she had let those men take her. So she could protect him. So he wouldn't have to watch.

He could still hear the muffled sounds from behind that door. Anders' laughter and harsh words. The floor creaking, the thumps of fists and feet striking flesh, when he couldn't tell whether Bones was attacking, or getting hit.

Booth had reached the end of the hall, walking fast. The elevator doors dinged open, and he jostled past the disembarking people.

He'd heard Bones cry out. Not much. Once or twice. But it must have been the actual moment when—

He'd heard the sob in her throat that she hadn't let out. The pure pain, and the shock.

Booth stopped at a dead end. There was nothing here but a window set with wire mesh, and a door leading to the stairwell. He barged through it, and pounded down the stairs, not caring where he was going.

He'd gotten to the landing of the floor below when he heard, "Booth!" The door had banged a second time, and someone was clattering down the steps after him.

It could only be Bones. He stopped.

Brennan paused on the landing above him, halfway between floors. She looked out of breath, and very worried. And not sure, now, what to do.

"Were you going somewhere specific?" she asked.

"What? No." He sighed. "Just…running away. Some hero, huh?"

"I thought you might be going to the prison. To shoot Anders."

Of course, she was serious.

"No, Bones. I think we're past that."

The furrow in her brow deepened, so he said, "I'm past thinking that would actually help. Besides…" Now he tried very hard at levity. "I'd probably lose my job, and then who would you have to argue with and bring you coffee over decomposing dead bodies?"

Her mouth twitched with what might have been amusement, but she didn't say anything.

Instead, she went to meet him halfway. She started down the stairs, and he started up. They stopped when she was two steps above him, and he found it strange, to be that much shorter.

His eyes were on a level with her chest. She wore a butter-yellow shirt, with fancy buttons: sort of marbled, like wood or tortoise shell.

When he looked up, he wondered if his eyes were as haunted as hers.

Booth turned and rested his hands on the center railing. It, like the walls, was painted a pale blue-gray.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have run out like that. Leaving you to fend for yourself against Sweets."

"Don't apologize for that." Her voice had a husky timbre, sad but somehow alluring. "And don't be… ashamed. About anything that happened."

Booth stared down through the railing, at the small gap between flights of stairs. He could see the repeating pattern of steps, seeming to decrease in size as it went down, all the way to the ground floor.

"It's hard," Bones said, "not to be ashamed. I know. But…"

She went silent, and he sensed she was gathering herself. Then she touched his arm. There, against his suit jacket, halfway down his forearm.

She said, "I'm glad you didn't have to see."

Just like that, tears burned his eyes. He tried to say something, but his throat closed up, sudden and unstoppable.

Bones kept her hand on his arm. He kept his eyes on the railing where his hands gripped it. Everything swam in his vision, and he figured it was useless to pretend he wasn't crying.

When he glanced up, Brennan's eyes glistened, too.

Booth let out a shuddery breath. Then, they moved with unspoken agreement, to sit side by side on the steps.

The concrete felt cool and hard on his butt bones. Brennan could tell him their scientific name, of course.

She was digging awkwardly in her pants pocket. She withdrew a handkerchief, and gave it to him.

He wadded it in his hand, and covered his face. His eyes hurt. His neck hurt. His heart—or was it his brain?—also hurt.

Behind his hands, Booth let himself have one big, painful, face-wrinkling grimace. Then he ordered his muscles to relax. He blew his nose on the handkerchief. Wait—_his _handkerchief.

"Bones? Is this—?"

"Yours. I kept meaning to give it back. After…"

He remembered. It was after they'd arrested Anders. The one and only time he'd seen Brennan cry—really cry—about this. Anders had leered at her, right there in the FBI hallway. Booth had shoved him into the interrogation room, shut the door, and finally taken a swing at him. Then Bones had dropped him to the floor with one perfectly executed kick.

And she had broken down crying that night, in his apartment.

Just like he was crying now. Still sniveling into his handkerchief, trying to get a grip on himself.

"One of these times, Bones…" He wiped brusquely at his face with the back of his hand. "We're going to get through a whole month without one of us having an emotional breakdown. Okay? I promise."

She regarded him calmly, although her own eyelashes were wet. "Sometimes it's warranted, Booth. That's what you told me, when… I locked myself in your bathroom, crying."

"Yeah," he said, "well, good. I guess we're even. And I guess I'm keeping this now, right?" He waved the damp handkerchief at her.

She tried to smile, but her eyes wouldn't let her.

Booth could feel her studying him. "You're upset because… it seems I sacrificed something. For you." It wasn't quite a question. "Booth, you've done the same for me, and other people, on many occasions. Every time you draw your gun and go ahead of me into a potentially volatile situation… How do you think I feel about that?"

Bones didn't give him time to respond. "Of course I value your training and expertise, but… You make those choices consciously. Whether to guard me, or a kidnapping victim, or your comrades in the Army." Her voice rasped a little. "You do that, knowing full well that you risk serious injury or death.

"If I made a choice, it wasn't so deliberate. It was more like…" Now her mouth curved, sad and sardonic. "…Intuition. Because if Anders was determined to play his power games with us… less resistance probably meant less danger. As you warned me when they drew their guns."

"Bones…" Booth sounded hoarse, too. "Maybe you're right, about the stuff I did. That I'd risk taking a bullet for someone. But I think what you did was worse. Took more courage. Because you went in there, not knowing. I mean, it could have been…"

He couldn't finish the thought. He could only say, "Conscious choice or not… My God, Bones. No one's ever done anything like that for me."

He was not being specific, he knew. But she did not ask him to clarify.

Tears welled in her eyes before she looked away. "Well... I don't think I could go through it again. In a similar situation."

"You won't have to. _We _won't have to. I promise."

He thought she might challenge him about predicting the future, with that vow. But when she spoke, the words were gentle, despite their scientific slant. "Statistically speaking, that's probably true."

They both fell silent. They sat in the echoing stairwell, their shoulders nearly touching.

A few voices carried from the hallway of the floor below, but no one came in. No one called to demand where they were, or send them back to work.

Booth rested his hand on the railing, picking at peeling flecks of paint. Brennan brushed at a scuff mark on the toe of her shoe.

Then she said, "I had a good time camping. Things were so much better. But now… it's like none of that was worth anything."

He couldn't stand how rough and disheartened her voice was. But the next part was worse.

"It just keeps coming back." She whispered it, dazed and disbelieving.

He watched her hands twisting together on her knees. Carefully, in case she wanted to pull away, Booth put his forearm over hers, and slid his hand into her palm.

She let him. She looked down at their arms crossed over each other. Their hands gripping.

"Yesterday," she said, "I was fine. I was back at the lab, and everything… But now this? And I don't know _why_. The verdict hasn't even come yet. But just the thought of it can cause…"

Booth looked down at his fingers wrapped around the back of her hand. At the bluish veins under her skin.

He thought about things he could say. _There are going to be bumps in the road here. There are going to be setbacks. It's not just a straight shot, getting over things._

But he figured she knew that already.

"Bones," he said. "I don't want you to feel... Going into that room with them… it had to be incredibly hard. Because it went against all your instincts and training. But Sweets was right: they didn't give us any real choice. As bad as everything was… you did the best you could. And you probably don't need to hear this from me, but…" He gave her hand a little squeeze. "You did good. Okay?"

He waited for her to roll her eyes, or correct him (_Grammatically, it should be 'you did well'_). But she merely responded, "Okay. I appreciate that." She said it haltingly, as if unconvinced, or suddenly exhausted by the conversation.

Her head was bowed over their clasped hands, her body curled protectively. Then she sighed, and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

After a second, he leaned his head down too, on top of hers. The silky strands of her hair shifted under his chin. He could smell her shampoo, a scent he could never label, but always identify. It was just…Bones. And beautiful.

Her head felt heavy, against his shoulder. Booth thought of the times Parker had fallen asleep on him, watching a movie on his couch. It was always kind of surprising, how even a little kid's head could be so heavy. But then, there was a lot of stuff in there.

Take Bones, now. Her reddish-brown hair under his cheek. Her head, trustingly, on his shoulder: containing all her smarts, her endless knowledge. Her gutsy courage and surprising humor. Her soft spots and fears.

That could be another reason Booth was so conscious of the weight. The responsibility, of being her partner and friend. Of being there for her, and guarding that trust.

They sat leaning on each other in the empty stairwell.

It had only been a few moments, but Booth's neck was starting to hurt. He lifted his head from hers, and took a slow breath. In, and out, his shoulder rising slightly under her cheek.

She sat up, then. She let go of his hand, and brushed at her eyes, but she wasn't crying in earnest. Just stray tears, he thought, as they both tried to shake off the gloomy mood.

Bones stretched her legs out, down to a lower step, and shot him a wry glance. "I wish I'd never said anything to Sweets. It was that dream that got us started on this whole thing."

He must have looked reproachful, because she added, "Well… I guess you would have dragged it out of me, anyway, wouldn't you?"

"That's right." He smiled at her tone. "I would have."

"But…" Her eyes searched his, serious again. "It caused you so much pain, too."

"Yeah, but… I'd rather _know_, than not. I'm glad you didn't try to withhold things from me. Or even from Sweets. He would say that you have faith in the process now, right?" His eyebrow arched with gentle irony. "Talking things out? Expressing your deepest, darkest feelings to your friend or therapist?"

She frowned in exasperation, but didn't argue the point.

He felt his smile fade, looking at her intently. "I know none of this is easy. But we're in it together, Bones. Now, and…back there, in that hotel suite. I mean, of course it wasn't the _same _for us… Because I didn't… It was worse for you, because…"

He wished he hadn't begun the sentence. But something sharpened in Brennan's gaze, and he knew he had to finish, now. It would be a cop-out if he didn't. Refusing to say the word…it would be denying the reality of what she had endured.

"I didn't have to face both of them alone. _Fight _both of them alone. And have one of them… commit rape."

It was hard, to keep looking at her as he said it. Brennan blinked, as though it had hurt her, too. But the pain was a necessary one.

Because euphemisms calmed most people. Not Bones. She wanted the unvarnished words. The clinical accuracy. The truth.

Her eyes had stopped flashing at him, and she nodded very slightly, in gratitude. Because he'd chosen the factual term. He had said it, and acknowledged it.

"We still…" Booth cleared his throat. "We protected each other, as much as we could. Because we're a team. Aren't we?"

"Yes." Her voice cracked, but she gave him a small, relieved smile. "We are."

He smiled back. But then he turned away because he felt himself yawning. His jaw stretched wide, lungs expanding with oxygen.

"Ah," he said, "sorry. Is it really only nine in the morning? After all this, it feels like…"

Bones seemed to read his mind. "It feels longer."

Booth shifted position, extending his legs down to hit the edge of one step, his lower back meeting the edge of another. "You think Sweets is looking for us? We should probably go tell him we're okay. 'Cause he'd never find us in here. No one ever uses the stairs."

"They should." Brennan got to her feet. "It's a more healthy alternative to always riding in the elevator."

"Yeah…" Booth stood up, too. "Well, partner, we better not stay in here much longer, or our bosses will decide to write us off and give our jobs to another team."

"That is highly unlikely. We've only been in here a few minutes, and besides, we are extremely good at our respective jobs. We're not easy to replace."

"No," he smiled. "We're not."

They walked back up one flight of stairs, until they stood on the landing where they had originally entered.

"So, what now?" Booth paused before reaching the door. "I guess we _should _go check in with Sweets. But he probably won't buy it if we say 'we're fine' and then leave."

"We could tell him he was right, with his interpretations. He always appreciates that."

"Good idea, Bones. And if that doesn't work, we can just say we got called in to a meeting, or something—that we're needed back at work.

"So…" Booth put his hands in his pockets. "After that? I just go back to my office and you go back to the lab, like always?"

"Did you have something else in mind?"

"No, but…" His eyes traveled over her. "You all right, Bones? You're the one who told me last week, it's not good to go short on sleep. You could nap in your office, to make up for last night."

Her eyes flickered a little, at the reminder of her nightmare. "I could."

Booth glanced at his watch. "Too bad it _is _only nine in the morning. Otherwise, I'd say we go and get drunk together. But…" He face formed a grimace. "Maybe we should save that for after the verdict."

Bones considered him. "No matter what the verdict is?"

"Yeah. No matter what it is."

Her mouth set itself in a firm line. "Okay."

Then she reached for the door, and they walked back into the main corridor.

"Perhaps _drunk _is too extreme a word," she told him over her shoulder. "It shouldn't be a _goal_. We could just get mildly intoxicated…"

"Whatever, Bones." He quickened his step so he was beside her again. "Slightly inebriated, okay? Get a nice buzz off whatever drink we feel like. You're buying."

"I am? Why me?"

"Oh, what? Ms. Famous Author on-the-bestseller-list can't buy her friends a drink now and then?"

"The fact that I am a well-known author has nothing to do with…"

They bickered all the way down the hall, paying no attention to curious glances from passersby.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **There, now. I let you down gently, off that roller coaster, didn't I? :)


	76. Chapter 76

**A/N: **So, I had started this scene, and then happened to re-watch the second-last episode of S5, the Gravedigger trial. And what do you know, there's a good line I decided to rip off. It's Cam, being concerned for 'her people.'

**Part 76**

Angela walked into Brennan's office, holding the model skull she was reconstructing for an upcoming museum exhibit.

Bren frowned in concentration at her computer screen. She typed a few words, then turned to consult the array of books and journals spread open on her desk.

"Hi, Angela," she said without looking up.

The artist came to stand at one end of the cluttered desk. "So, is this that review article you were worried about?"

"Not so much worried…" Brennan gestured at the original article, on top of the other papers. "He has ground-breaking ideas, but he neglects to consider several relevant case studies that could overturn his assumptions. And this is a prestigious journal, with an extremely well-informed readership, so my writing, my references—all have to be perfect."

"Sweetie, you know by now that any journal would be glad to publish what you submit. And you've been working your tail off all week, on everything." Angela paused, suspicious. "You're not planning to jet off to some exotic dig site, are you?"

"What? No." Bren picked up one journal to see the one stacked underneath it. "I just… need to do things. There's a lot to do," she corrected.

Angela guessed that her first statement was the more accurate one. Bren _had _been working like there was no tomorrow, especially since that meeting with Sweets the day before.

But she let all of that slide, and held up the skull, dotted with tissue-depth markers. "So, I was working on this reconstruction for the exhibit… But when I started on the deep musculature, some of these markers didn't feel right."

Bren was still distracted by her piles of papers. "What do you mean?"

"Well, here and here." Angela pointed to the markers over the left zygomatic bone. "It seemed like this lateral one was too deep, but then the medial one by the nose…"

"Let me see." Brennan reached for the model skull, rotating it to examine one side, then the other.

A look of chagrin came over her face. "You're right," she said. "I was… I made a mistake. I must have switched these when I was putting them on. This size marker should go here…" She carefully pulled several of the pieces free, then reattached them in their proper locations.

Angela gave her a relieved smile. "I know everyone's faces are a little uneven, but I didn't think this Iron Age warrior was _that _asymmetrical."

Bren was checking the rest of the markers, still embarrassed by her error. "Everything else looks right." She handed the skull back. "That was very careless; I don't know what I was thinking. I must have been preoccupied by this article."

Right, Angela thought. It has nothing to do with whatever intense scene you must have had with Booth and Sweets yesterday. Nothing to do with the upcoming verdict, and whether a murdering rapist will get the punishment he deserves.

But trying to get Bren to admit any of that would not be smart right now. So Angela rested the skull on the desk and said, "Hey, it's no big deal. We caught it early, and besides, it's not like this is a modern murder victim. This guy is plastic." Angela tapped the skull with her knuckles. "He's been dead for thousands of years, and now his likeness is going to help to educate school children and bring in more money for the museum."

Bren nodded, looking inattentive rather than comforted. She was glancing back at her computer screen like she wanted to get rid of Angela and resume work. But Angela pushed aside some journals, clearing a space at the edge of the desk, and perched her hip on it.

"So, Brennan…" Her voice was low-pitched as if imparting a secret. "My painting's almost finished."

Brennan looked blank.

"My painting of you, Sweetie. Remember? The idea I got while we were at the gym that day… the thing I've been working on all week while you were off camping… the reason I wanted to sketch you at the firing range…"

"Oh," Bren said, "is that what you meant when Booth came to return my hiking socks, and he made a joke about creating masterpieces?"

"Yes." Angela smiled smugly. "Why don't you come over this weekend and see it? I could make my famous mint brownies. We could hang out at my place, rent a movie, or maybe go out if you feel like it."

Brennan agreed, unenthusiastic. But Angela knew better than to take it personally. I don't know how I'm going to feel either, she thought, after that verdict comes down.

"And then…" She pushed on with her social event calendar. "Maybe the weekend after, you and Booth could come over. To Hodgins' place," she clarified. "Because Booth never got to go. He was taking his son to the aquarium, right?—when Hodgins invited everyone else that time."

Brennan nodded again, thankfully not accusing Angela of trying to set up a double date.

Then, when the artist sat without speaking for a moment, Bren gave her a quizzical look. Angela hesitated, studying her friend's face, her straight-backed posture.

"You know," she said, "the verdict's probably going to come any minute."

Bren's expression hardly changed. "Yes…"

"Are you going to go, and hear it read? Rather than… having Caroline tell you, after?"

Now Brennan's eyes went out of focus, sliding past Angela to the bookshelves, then down to the desk.

"Yes. I have to."

"Okay," Angela said softly. "Then I'm going, too." She stood up, retrieving the model skull from the desk. "Listen, Bren… I was talking to Cam this morning, and… she wants to go hear the verdict as well. As a show of support."

Brennan flipped through one of her journals as if waiting for her friend to make a point.

"I didn't think you'd have any objections, but Cam wanted me to ask anyway. Because…" Angela sighed. "She feels really bad, Brennan. We all do. We know you're both doing better—I mean, we haven't had to go baby sit Booth lately, or get him to watch violent hockey games rather than beating up innocent passersby…"

Brennan's eyebrows lifted skeptically.

"But Cam said to me, about Anders' trial…" Angela stepped closer again, and her voice dropped. "She said, 'These are my friends he hurt. I should be able to _do _something.'"

Now Bren's forehead wrinkled in concern, as if guessing that Angela, too, agreed with that sentiment.

"Cam wanted to make sure you wouldn't mind," Angela said, "having one more person there to hear it, and sitting on our side in the courtroom."

"On our side," Brennan echoed. She let the journal fall closed, blinking a few times. Then she turned her chair toward Angela—turned her whole body, away from the work on her desk. "No," she said. "Of course I don't mind."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth let Brennan avoid him for about twenty four hours, before he short-circuited her plans.

Well, they probably weren't _plans_. Just Bones being… Bones. Burying herself in work, to keep from dwelling on the trial. And creating some distance between them, after their conversation in the stairwell.

It wasn't that she'd been ignoring him. They weren't working together, but he had called a couple times, to tell her about the case he'd been assigned, and to find out about her projects. "Any of those Limbo skeletons look like foul play?" he'd asked, but she'd been reluctant and noncommittal in her responses. She was still analyzing the current specimen. She had important articles to write.

Booth reflected on all this as he drove from the FBI building to the lab. He'd picked up Thai food on the way, which would greatly decrease his chances of being rebuffed.

If Bones needed time to cool off from their weepy scene in the stairwell, that was fine with him. But he had no intention of letting them get awkward with each other. Once Anders' trial was completed, they would be free to work murder cases again. And they didn't need to resume their old routine with any kind of gulf between them.

When Booth walked into the lab, he half expected to find Brennan in the basement, knee-deep in crates of unidentified bones. He spied Angela about to leave for the night, and they talked for a minute. Brennan _had _been down there, Angela said, but had finally re-emerged and headed for her office.

He walked in holding the tray of savory takeout containers. Bones was at her desk, sketching some kind of bone diagram. He greeted her with a grin, lifting the food temptingly. She looked a little startled, and did not smile back.

He knew better than to ask if she was okay, or whether she'd been sleeping well.

"Come on, Bones," he wheedled. "You gotta eat. Angela said you took an extra-long lunch-break workout, so you can't tell me you're not hungry."

"Since when do you talk to Angela about my daily habits?" She tried to sound irritated, but was eying the food with definite eagerness. This time, when he came closer and tilted the box in her direction, she smiled.

She took the couch, he took the chair, and they dove into the food he'd placed on the coffee table between them.

Just like that, things were back to normal.

Bones kicked off her shoes and folded her legs under her. She told him more about the article she was writing, and he told her about the theft case he'd been investigating. She asked about Parker, both his sports activities and his science classes.

They did not mention courtrooms, hotel suites, or bad dreams.

They argued over how much mee krob Booth had ordered, and whether there was meat in the khao soi. They passed the fried rice back and forth, eating out of the same container.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Do you know the drill now? If this chapter was lighter, that means the next is probably heavy. But seriously, we're running out of angsty scenes in this story. I think I've milked it for all it's worth, and it's (nearly) time to wrap things up. :D


	77. Chapter 77

**Part 77**

The call came the next afternoon.

It was after four o'clock when Brennan, Angela and Cam got into Brennan's car, on route to the courthouse to hear the verdict.

No one was feeling very talkative. From the passenger's seat, Angela kept an eye on her friend. If Sweets were here, he might make some observation about why Brennan had wanted to take her own car: in the literal driver's seat, she felt more in control.

But Angela paid more attention to her appearance. Bren's hair was smoothed into a neat, rather than unkempt, knot. She had chosen a sensible black dress, calf-length, with a v-neck collar. It had silver buttons down the front, and crisp, almost military lines. She wore no jewelry, but more eye makeup than usual. And shoes that made a satisfying sound on the Jeffersonian floors.

All of it, Angela thought, would make Brennan feel powerful and put-together. As if she'd known the verdict would come today, and needed to armor herself. But Temperance Brennan would scoff at both notions. If she had expected the verdict, she would say it had to do with probability, not intuition.

Inside the courthouse, they met Booth in the lounge area. He was pacing up and down, past the windows overlooking the city. Angela took in the room's unattractive couches, vending machine, and tables scattered with newspapers. Booth glanced up as they approached. He looked like a man who could use a good long outburst of cursing. Or a good round of steamy sex, but Angela wasn't going to suggest that.

All he said was, "Caroline will come tell us, when they're ready."

Cam gave a helpless sort of shrug, then sat down with one of the newspapers, pretending to read the headlines. Like Booth, Brennan remained standing. She appeared stoically calm. Angela honestly couldn't tell if that was artifice, but she stuck by her side all the same.

They didn't have long to wait before Caroline appeared. She saw their expectant looks and held up a hand. "No, not yet. Probably another ten minutes or so. I just came to wait with you, rather than with the other lawyer. You know, I usually have _some _sympathy for my opposition." Her eyebrows lowered sternly. "Not this time."

Booth had stopped pacing and dropped into a chair. Caroline leaned on the one next to him, and he caught her eye. "Bones and I are probably getting a drink, after. You want to come? Either we'll buy you a drink or you're buying us one. Depending on the outcome."

The attorney glanced at Brennan, who nodded, then back to Booth. "I think I'll take you up on that."

They all waited. Angela couldn't keep her hands still, clasping them together, or smoothing the ruffles on her blouse.

Cam and Booth began a halfhearted conversation about the latest sports scandal. Caroline went over to Brennan, when she thought no one was looking, and touched her on the shoulder.

"How are you holding up, cherie?"

Angela was digging in her purse, for lack of anything better to do, but saw Bren look a little startled, and touched. She did not respond with an automatic "I'm fine." She seemed thoughtful, instead. The way she looked when she was gathering clues, and beginning to frame a hypothesis.

"I'm all right," she told Caroline. "Thank you."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A few minutes later, they were taking seats in the courtroom, behind Caroline's position as prosecutor. Cam went into the row first, followed by Booth, and Angela waited for Brennan to sit next. So I can be on the aisle, the artist thought, and maybe shield her from Anders. They had a better view of him than they'd had for the testimony. There he sat with his lawyer, both of them wearing stylish suits. Even just looking at Anders' back and right profile, Angela hated that cropped gray hair, that creepy confidence.

Bren kept glancing over there, as if Anders drew her eyes, or she was trying to prove to herself it wouldn't bother her. But she was breathing a little too fast, as though expecting she would have to defend herself—physically, from Anders, or verbally, from his lawyer.

Just before the marshals closed the courtroom doors, a slender figure ducked in. It was Sweets. He slid into the row behind them, and Angela thought he might whine, 'Why didn't you tell me the verdict was in?' But he just gave them all a very grown-up kind of nod. His eyebrows, and that pout-shaped mouth, formed serious lines.

The judge still didn't have the verdict in his hand. Angela looked around at other people in the audience: the parents of the victim, Miranda Charles. They had come to hear whether the man responsible for their daughter's murder would get his due punishment.

Angela recalled that she'd wanted to draw them, when she'd seen them here. They would have been such an adorable older couple, if they weren't so tragic.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Marc and Liana Charles sat on the far right of the courtroom, their profiles clearly visible. Brennan was looking again at their bone structure, seeing the lines of the girl she had studied. Miranda had inherited her father's jaw line, but with a more pointed rather than square chin. Her brows resembled her mother's; but in photos, the girl's eyes had been cheerful, not pulled down by grief.

Genetics, Brennan thought. Inheritance, continuity. These things should be comforting. But Miranda had been murdered before she could carry on that legacy, by having offspring, or through her own accomplishments in the world.

Brennan's eyes traveled back over the rows of seats, to Anders. Why hadn't he simply bribed his office assistant to keep quiet? Or fired her, before she got too close to illegal information? Surely he could have done something short of murder.

Brennan wasn't supposed to care about motive. That was Booth's territory. But she couldn't help wondering: Had the girl's discovery been too sudden? Was she too candid and idealistic, that Anders thought she'd go to the police? Was he, or Rawling, just that willing to shoot someone who'd endangered their plans?

Brennan realized her hands were trembling with anger and anxiety. She hadn't expected such a physical reaction to being back in this courtroom.

But now it was time for the accused to stand and hear the verdict. Angela reached for Brennan's hand, and Booth glanced over, looking like he might take her other hand, but he didn't touch her.

Finally, the judge took the decisions handed to him by the foreman. He looked up, and began to speak. Brennan heard Angela take a breath, and hold it.

Murder, the judge read: guilty.

On the charge of rape: guilty. Assaulting a federal officer, and trafficking drugs: guilty.

A ripple of sound ran through the audience: sighs and muttering and hand clasping.

Brennan's throat was suddenly tight, her vision blurry, and she didn't register her friends' reactions.

The judge was reading the additional drug charges, and the lesser ones for fraud. For all but two, he was found guilty.

And that was it. The judge made brief comments to the jury members. Two marshals stepped forward to handcuff Anders.

Miranda's parents were hugging each other and crying. People were standing up, murmuring congratulations and thanks. Caroline leaned over the seat, shaking hands with Cam and Booth.

Angela turned to Brennan with a smile, wanting to hug her, but Brennan pushed past her. She escaped down the aisle and through the heavy doors.

She couldn't breathe. Pressure in her chest made her gasp and struggle, and she couldn't have avoided the tears if she tried. They were already making tracks down her cheeks, and she didn't bother to scrub them away.

Fleeing down the wood-paneled hallway, she saw the ladies' room first, but bypassed it. There might be other people there to witness her emotion, and Angela might go after her.

Brennan rounded a corner, oblivious to the sidelong glances of lawyers and clerks. She sought refuge in the office where she had met with Booth and Caroline. The door was closed, but unlocked. She went in, leaning against the door to shut it, and turned the lock.

Here, she could cry. Give in to the waves of desperate emotion that seemed to churn from her chest and belly. She stood hunched over, one hand clinging to the bookcase by the door.

A few choked sobs tore their way out. But the worst of it didn't last long.

The unbearable pressure seemed to have flowed out with the tears, and she felt in control of her breathing. Still, she went to the nearest chair, and sat with her face in her hands. Crying, though she still couldn't identify the emotion.

After some minutes, Brennan wiped her eyes and glanced around the room. She hadn't noticed, the first time she'd been in here: its color scheme looked very like that of the hotel suite. It nearly made her cry more, at the irony: that this building, dedicated to justice and the letter of the law, would resemble that place of transgression.

She didn't even know if this was Caroline's own office, or one she used when she was here. Brennan could look for a name plate on the desk, or family photos on the shelf. But she did not.

She wiped her eyes again, as more tears welled up. She felt…watery, inside. Not quite the way she'd felt when Anders had been arrested, but… It had to be relief. (Hadn't Booth said that was harder to deal with?) Brennan pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead and exhaled a long, shuddery breath.

Relief, and anger. Gratitude, and sorrow.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Angela started to follow Brennan out of the courtroom, but Booth put a hand on her arm to stop her.

For a second, Angela was mad. _I'm_ her best friend, she thought. _I_ want to go.

But Booth probably felt it was his duty to check on her. After all, they'd gotten through this whole mess, together. So Angela nodded in what she hoped was a graceful manner.

Booth couldn't leave right away, though. He was too enmeshed in their victorious knot of people. Everyone had shaken everyone's hand at least twice, and Liana Charles had hugged Caroline. Now they were talking about drinks at happy hour, and who had driven which car.

The group left the courtroom together. Angela walked over to check the bathroom, but came out shaking her head: no sign of Brennan. Booth immediately turned down the hall, like he knew right where she was.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth found himself staring at the wood-grained door, fist poised to knock, and ask Bones to let him in. He was pretty sure she was crying. The way she'd run out of the courtroom, like she hardly knew where she was going…

"Bones? It's me. Uh…" He winced. Real slick opener, there.

He leaned close to the door and tried again. "Everyone's gone ahead, to the bar. Will you let me in, Bones? Or do you want me to go, too?" Damn, why did I give her a chance to kick me out?

But she didn't answer, either because she was crying, or because she wasn't sure _what _she wanted him to do.

"It doesn't matter," he said, "I'll just wait. Okay? I'll be right out here."

Booth leaned against the doorframe. He heaved a sigh. Watched a couple temp workers scurry down the corridor holding stacks of files.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. A tear might've found its way down his face, too. Because of the verdict. Because of… Bones.

He waited maybe five minutes before she opened the door. It was long enough to make him worry, but he figured he would give her space.

When the lock clicked open, he cautiously pushed the door further ajar.

Bones stood there in that somber, pretty black dress. She didn't turn her back, but she wasn't facing him either. He could see that her makeup had left smudges around her eyes, and she was still crying a little.

"Bones, do you…?" He didn't know what he was asking. Do you still want to get drinks after this? Do you still want me here?

But whatever it was, the answer was yes.

He saw her shoulders lift as she took a breath, and then she simply walked into him. Walked forward as if into a comforting wall, so that their chests bumped, her arms encircled his waist, and she buried her face in his collar.

He folded his arms around her shoulders, and felt a brief, trembling sob make its way from her throat. But it seemed the storm was over. These were just aftershocks following a quake, while the world righted itself again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Three cheers for justice, right? And a B/B hug! That scene's not over yet.

I was inspired, for Brennan's outfit, to base it on a black dress she was wearing in Skull in the Sculpture, like the scene when Booth finds out that Angela used to date Roxie.


	78. Chapter 78

**A/N: **Thank you to Amilyn for the beta work this chapter. Here is a very paraphrased version of our email conversation:

Me: I think that I am awesome because I wrote this. Am I right?

Amilyn: Basically, yes.

Me: Score.

This is a shorter chapter, but I bet there are very few emotions it _doesn't _cover. :)

I would've liked to give you the following scenes, but for some reason I am finding that part, where there will be considerably less angst, harder than this. I wonder what Sweets would have to say about that.

**Part 78**

They stayed that way for several moments: Brennan's head tucked under Booth's, and his chin against her hair.

He thought about how she had turned into him, simple and unthinking. She had walked into his arms like it was the only place she would go.

She'd done the same thing once at her apartment, when they'd feared her brother had been killed. But this was not a desperate, clutching fear. Bones held him peacefully, arms draped around his waist. Her breathing was shaky, but rhythmic, and he felt it on his neck when she turned her head.

"Booth." She spoke against his shirt. "I'm so glad."

"Me too." He let out a long sigh. "God, Bones. It's all over." He heard the relief and wonder in his voice. But then he corrected himself. "Well—legally over. Officially over. Because, unofficially…"

"Subjectively?" Brennan offered.

"Subjectively… it might never be a hundred percent over."

"No," she agreed, and raised her head to look at him. "What percentage do you think?" Her serious eyes asked for his evaluation. But he couldn't help smiling a little.

"You're a squint until the end, aren't you?"

Her forehead wrinkled in that way that was part disapproval and part trying to figure him out.

They were still holding each other, and Booth realized how close their faces were right now. Brennan's eyes… they were such a pure, clear blue. The smudged mascara should've looked messy, but somehow only heightened the effect.

With effort, he remembered what they were talking about. "Percentages, huh?" He gave a half laugh as they let go of each other.

For a moment they collected themselves, smoothing clothing and sniffing a little. Bones brushed a hand over her cheek, and Booth had to admit, neither of them had dry eyes after that… non-guy-hug.

But he would answer her question sincerely. "I don't know, Bones. Are we ninety percent okay? Ninety-five? Or even… ninety-nine?"

"Ninety…five." She nodded. "That seems accurate."

Booth thought she looked satisfied, that they had agreed. And that they'd brought in science, to quantify emotion. Then he asked very softly, "Can you live with that?"

Bones glanced away, toward one of the bookcases. "I don't have a choice, do I?" He was glad that she didn't sound bitter. More like philosophical. "Yes. I can live with that."

Then she turned back, searching his face. "And you, Booth? Can you?" She used her gentlest tone, and he heard the unspoken questions: Can _you _live with it? The ruling, the memories, the _should-haves_?

"Yeah," he said simply. "If you're… If you can deal with it, then I can." He shifted his feet and ran a hand through his hair. "But I am definitely glad about today. This spares me the thought of…"

Maybe he shouldn't have said that. Brennan's frown was back, and he knew he couldn't shrug it off. Not quite meeting her eyes, he said, "Now I don't have to… I don't have to think what I would do, if Anders had got off. If Caroline hadn't nailed him on the most important charges."

He felt her keen gaze on him. "You would've… pursued non-legal channels, to get him the punishment he deserves?"

"If I had to… yeah. That's one way to put it."

She didn't look surprised, or press him for details. "Today…" she said, and her voice turned hard. "It's justice. It's not _enough_, but it's justice."

Booth could only nod agreement. "Before we left the courtroom, Caroline said… You know they might not have the sentencing for another two weeks, but she thought—Anders is going to be in jail until he's a very old and decrepit man. With all those convictions, he's looking at about sixty years. Maybe more."

"So he is not getting out," Brennan said. "Unless he has an extremely rare and long-lived genetic makeup, in which case…"

Booth narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you making a joke, Bones?"

Her face looked a little too innocent. "I don't really do that. But I was going to say, I might be alive in sixty years, so hypothetically, if Anders were to get out… I would kick him in the testicles again."

Booth stared, and then he laughed. "That's my girl. And no, I am not trying to assert ownership over you with that kind of comment, okay? It's just a way of… it's a partner thing."

She smiled at that.

"Bones, here." Booth stepped closer. "You've got…" He gestured at her eyes, and she realized that her mascara had smeared when she'd cried.

She started to dig in her pockets for a tissue, asking, "You said everyone's gone to the bar already?"

"Yeah." Booth checked his own pockets for a handkerchief. "Caroline, Angela, Cam, probably Sweets. Hell, I bet they're calling Zack and Hodgins, and maybe some other random squints who want to celebrate the successful legal system by getting hammered tonight."

"Now you're exaggerating." She looked at him expectantly. "No handkerchief?"

He shrugged. "Guess I forgot one today. What?"

"But you always have one."

"Give me a break, Bones. What am I, the handkerchief dispenser?"

Bones frowned, having pulled only a sad-looking tissue from her pocket.

"Hey," he said, "we should be glad if we finally get to a point when neither of us _needs _a handkerchief every week."

She was dabbing ineffectually at the corners of her eyes, and Booth said, "Here, let me."

"It would be faster if I just went somewhere with a mirror." But she let him take the tissue, and tilted her head up.

He carefully wiped the gray smudges from the delicate skin around her lashes. Some were stubborn, however, so he licked the tip of his finger and stroked over the outer edge of her eye, erasing the marks.

It took both of them that second to realize what he'd done.

"Booth!" Bones ducked her head away. "You can't just put your saliva on people."

He gave her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Reflex. I do the same with Parker. You know, if he gets dirty."

It was instinct, he told himself. It was the logical solution.

He could tell Brennan wasn't truly upset. More surprised, even flustered by the intimacy. She was stuffing the tissue back in her pocket, although it was pretty far gone and could just have been thrown away.

"Well, I'm not Parker."

"No… You're definitely not." His voice came out a lot deeper than he'd thought. Low and amused and confident.

Her eyes snapped back to his.

She fixed him with her analyzing look, and he almost thought she'd say, 'What do you mean by that?'

There was definite wondering going on behind that face, but her eyes stayed on his as if compelled. And he found _her _pretty damn compelling. The ivory skin of her throat, against the black dress. Her swept-up hair, a few loose strands framing her face. Her lips slightly parted; eyes glinting, but uncertain.

She was starting to think too much, but he wasn't thinking at all. Only how soft her skin had been under his fingertips. How the little creases by the corner of her eye might be wrinkles in ten years. How she'd trusted him to touch a vulnerable spot.

He looked away first.

"Well," Brennan said, business-like, "are the marks gone?"

Booth suddenly thought of other marks on her skin, ones that had not been so easy to remove. His voice, when he answered, was unwontedly soft.

"Yeah, Bones. They are."


	79. Chapter 79

**Forgotten author's note from last section**: I wish I could take full credit for a line at the end of Ch. 78, but I was inspired by another writer. When Booth thinks, "How the little creases by the corner of her eye might be wrinkles in ten years," I realized I'd read something like it, from Killer in the Classroom by bloodwrites: "…he ran a fingertip along the spot where he imagined worry lines would appear in the next few years…". In her story, btw, it's when B/B are having sex for the first time (finally!).

**Part 79 **

When Booth and Brennan got to the bar, they were greeted like stragglers crossing the finish line of a race. Hodgins and Sweets clapped them on the back, Zack raised his arms in the air triumphantly, and Angela voiced something between a whoop and a cheer. Caroline gave them her widest smile, while Cam gestured them toward bar stools, saying, "Let's get some drinks in you."

The group hadn't ordered food yet, but they'd taken over several bar seats as well as nearby tables. The place was filling up with the after-work crowd, and people deciding to start their weekend early.

Booth had been here before, at Angela and Hodgins' suggestion. The tavern was furnished with dark wood tables and paneling, and had some vintage maps and charts on the wall. There was a small dance floor and jukebox in one corner, but no one was dancing yet, being more focused on drinks, food and conversation.

He and Bones sat down at a table while their friends chattered around them. He saw that Sweets had done the same thing he had, discarding his coat and tie before he got here. After only one drink, the kid was looking flushed and giddy. He had wrapped his tie around his head, with the tail hanging down over one ear, like a teenager in a garage rock band.

Booth watched Angela lean close to Brennan and whisper something that made both of them smile. He and Bones had traveled here separately, since he'd wanted to leave some files in his office, and grab a leather jacket to replace his suit coat.

He looked at Bones, now. Some of the makeup had washed off, and he liked the more natural effect. She wore that pretty but professional dress, and her smoothed-back hair wasn't quite as neat as it had been.

As she glanced around the circle of their friends and colleagues, she seemed… appreciative. Alert to where she was, and who she was with.

Somewhere between the courthouse and here, she'd gotten a reckless gleam in her eye. A good one, Booth thought.

Cam was hailing one of the bartenders so Booth and Brennan could order their drinks. But instead of listening to the beer and wine list, Bones looked straight at her partner. "Booth and I are doing shots. What do you say? Tequila?"

He felt a grin spreading over his face. "Yeah, Bones. I will if you will."

He wouldn't have expected this, after the stress of waiting for the verdict. And he didn't know where the devil-may-care attitude had come from, but he would definitely go along with it.

Angela had started to ask what everyone else wanted to drink, for their first or second round.

Brennan said, "Drinks are on me."

Zack and Hodgins had been engrossed in some squint argument, but fell silent at her announcement. Or maybe it was a natural lull in conversation, but suddenly everyone was looking at Brennan.

"What's the occasion, Dr. B?" Hodgins asked. "Because you're not actually the most loaded person here, you know."

"No, the occasion is…" Bones stared down at the table, searching for words. Then she looked up at them all, clustered around her. "Because," she said, "you're my people. You've supported me…" She glanced at Booth, "supported us… through this whole process. Offering legal counsel," she nodded to Caroline, "emotional support," Angela got a smile, "and even ambiguous theories to help us understand our psychological reactions." Sweets acknowledged that with a wry grin. "A token gesture such as purchasing alcohol is the least I can do, to say thank you."

"Aw…" Hodgins, Cam, Angela—everyone chimed in with a chorus of sympathetic noises. They were all smiling with the same touched expression, and jostling each other to lean over and pat Brennan on the shoulder.

"Sweetie…" Angela gave her a squeeze. "That's what we're here for."

Cam was saying, "We're flattered. Just glad we could help."

"It is my job, after all," Caroline put in.

"Usually you'd have to consume alcohol," Sweets said, "before getting emotionally demonstrative. Am I right?" He elbowed Hodgins next to him. "You rational scientists?"

Hodgins laughed and started to argue.

Booth sat quietly across the table. Bones had flushed a little, with all the attention. As the hubbub from their friends died down, her eyes found him again. Her gaze was soft and luminous.

He nodded to her, as if to say, Yeah, Bones. You've got people. I'm so glad you do. And that you _know _you do.

"All right," Caroline was saying, "this definitely calls for some drinks. Come on. And since our big-shot writer-scientist is buying, I am going to have the finest, most expensive wine this place has to offer. You—" she gestured at the bartender. "I want something that's been maturing for about a hundred years."

While everyone else debated drink orders at the group table, Bones motioned for Booth to accompany her to the bar. They perched on adjacent stools, while two glasses and a bottle of tequila were placed in front of them. She let Booth pour, watching him fill the golden liquid to identical levels in their glasses.

They picked up their shots, and held each other's eyes; suddenly feeling the solemnity of the occasion. Booth could bet she was thinking, as he was, of other times they'd had drinks over the last few months: Before Anders and Rawling had been caught, when it was too soon to know if the men would be punished. Booth had made a toast, when they had closed the cases they'd been working separately. _Mystery solved_. _Answers won. Here's to more of the same._

Now he looked at Brennan: the austere black dress, at odds with the faint blush on her cheeks. How she rested one hand on the bar, her other arm making a graceful line as she held the shot glass in the air.

Words seemed inadequate.

They clinked glasses, gravely. They tossed back the liquor, and plunked their glasses back on the bar. Coughing a little, at the fiery trails burning down their throats.

Then Booth gave a dramatic "Ah" of satisfaction.

"That good, huh?"

"Whew." He grinned. "Yeah. In fact, that's _really _good." He pulled the bottle closer to get a look at the label, which declared the drink as tequila reposado. "This darker color means it's been aged a while, huh?"

"Yes, _reposado_ means 'rested,' or in this case, 'aged.'" Bones held out her glass so he'd pour them another two shots.

He obliged, but said, "We're not supposed to just toss it back as quick as we can. We're supposed to _taste _it."

Bones shrugged and gulped hers anyway.

Booth rolled the liquid around on his tongue before he swallowed, and looked at the label again. "See, it was aged for six months in an oak barrel, for a 'rich and complex' flavor. And—yeah, I thought I tasted that—it was in a used whiskey barrel, so it 'inherits unique flavors from the previous spirit.'"

Bones still looked uninterested, at the moment, in alcohol production methods.

"Can you taste it?" he asked. "It's really subtle, but it's there."

She looked skeptical. "The whiskey? From the extremely faint essence left inside a wooden barrel?" She licked her lips, reconsidering. "I'd say it's more likely that reading the label made you imagine that you could taste it."

"Imagine it? Come on, Bones. I'm not a connoisseur, but I know whiskey when I come across it. You can't tell me you don't appreciate the taste."

"Sure I do. But alcohol has more of a socio-cultural function than a gastronomic one. No matter what type the drinks are, they all serve to get you intoxicated. Or at least to act with fewer inhibitions in your social group, which studies have shown people do, even before consuming enough liquor to actually…"

Booth started to laugh softly. He realized he'd done that the last time they were sitting at a bar, and for the same reason: Bones, getting anthropological.

She stopped. "You don't want me to make cultural observations?"

"No, Bones. Go ahead and make all the observations you want."

He could tell she liked that answer by the way her eyes smiled at him. And maybe it was the alcohol taking effect, but right now, she seemed very relaxed: one foot on the rung of the stool, one elbow on the bar, leaning toward him a little.

They glanced up, when Cam waved at them from the table. "Come on, you two. What are we ordering for dinner?" But Angela shushed her, motioning for Zack to finish whatever story he was telling.

Bones watched them for a moment, then said, "Now that the trial's over, does this mean we're back on cases together?"

"You're already thinking about work, Bones? Come on… this is happy hour. Drinks. Food. Friends."

"I know. But…"

Booth stopped teasing. "Yeah, I think we're back. Sweets and Cullen just have to give the okay, which I'm sure they will. And then they can stop passing all the murders off to some other, less spectacular team."

A smile started to curve her lips. "We're spectacular?"

"That's right, Bones." He poured another two shots, and she lifted her glass to clink against his. "That's exactly what we are."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Thanks to ladychi and Amilyn for a brainstorming chat session about alcohol consumption. :) The rest of my info came from wikipedia and tequila dot net.

Stay tuned for more scenes in this bar. I think there will be dancing.


	80. Chapter 80

**A/N: **Thanks to Amilyn for a (now) rather old (but always brilliant) email about why Brennan feels lucky to have people standing up for her.

I thought this chapter would have to be shorter, but I managed to finish that last scene. Whoo! Hopefully you'll say the same thing when you read it.

**Part 80**

While Cam and the squints were still debating about what food to order, Brennan left Booth at the bar for a moment, and slipped into the seat next to Caroline.

The attorney was watching the argument with a half smile, absently swishing the liquid in her wineglass.

She turned to Brennan, who said, "You nailed Anders today."

Caroline opened her mouth to answer, but looked ready to laugh instead.

"That was the correct terminology?" It must be, Brennan thought. Booth said it at the courthouse.

"Yes, it was."

Brennan nodded, and got to the point she wanted to make. "I'm sorry I yelled at you after my testimony. And I forgive you for not warning me about the defense lawyer's tactics."

Caroline absorbed that. Her mouth curved with what could be amusement, but her eyes…

"Cherie." Caroline reached out, giving her hand a warm squeeze. "That's just water under the bridge."

And Brennan knew what that meant.

The others had finally decided what they wanted to eat, so the group placed their orders. Then Brennan turned to Caroline again.

"I would be like to hear more about the evidence you used during the trial. The evidence and expert testimonies, especially regarding the murder charge—that it was murder and not manslaughter. And, since you and Booth keep telling me that evidence is not the entire story, I'd like to know what balance you used, of data combined with emotional appeals and other subjective forms of persuasion."

Caroline had raised her eyebrows, and now groaned. "I'm off the clock tonight! If you _really _want to talk about that… we can get coffee and have a nice rehashing of everything. Later. Right now, I have wine." She winked, and raised her glass to take a long swallow of alcohol.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth watched Bones talking to Caroline. The bar's background noise—voices, laughter, clinking glasses—was not so loud that he couldn't hear their conversation. And it made him smile.

Brennan was being her typical, rational self. But also—because of the potent drinks the two of them had just had—a little more affectionate and intent.

Caroline, too, was less brusque than usual. She was more quick to laugh than to make a derogatory comment, and right now she was cackling over something Cam had said.

Booth swiveled his seat so he could observe more easily. The bartender walked by, asking if he wanted anything else, but Booth waved him off.

He looked at Bones, sitting in profile to him in one of the dark wood chairs. She crossed her legs, accentuating the curve of her hip in that black dress, and suddenly he thought, Anders touched her there.

They would come to him without warning, these flashes. Brennan's bloody lip. Her pained breath from cracked ribs. Her fingers clawing stubbornly at rope knots.

Anders and Rawling parading around the suite, their predatory eyes raking her. Anders, pawing her breasts. Kissing her forcibly. Grasping her hips and finally—forcing himself inside her.

It made Booth want to rage and weep and wrap her in his arms.

He knew she must have those flashes, too. In far more personal detail.

But she dealt with them, quietly, the way he did.

And the times they didn't think about what had happened—those periods were, slowly, getting longer.

Booth looked up, seeing Bones move from her seat. She abandoned her spot with the group and came back to him, looking worried. He'd been sitting here brooding, and it must have shown on his face.

He tried to give her a brash, confident smile, but she stood there watching him, her head slightly tilted. Then she said, "Dance with me. Now."

Booth looked at her dumbly.

"Angela assures me that the vintage jukebox at this establishment is in perfect working order." Bones nodded at the other side of the room, where a couple people had just started some tunes from the machine in question. Some old big band hit had inspired dancers—retirees by the look of them—to congregate on the floor.

Bones was getting impatient with him. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I just... I didn't think you'd feel like dancing. After today."

"We danced the last time we went to a bar. Although there were no courtrooms involved, then. But… you're concerned because we saw Anders today?" Bones shook her head as if shrugging that off. "Booth, you said it yourself: We don't have to worry about him for at least sixty years. Out of sight, out of mind, right?"

She had a careless glint in her eye, and a half-grin trying to draw him out. He started to smile too, and Bones kept going. "To hell with it, right? All of it. I am not going to let…" She paused, before committing fully. "I am not going to let Anders fuck up my life any more than he already has." She was grimacing now, fierce and defiant. "Are you?"

It took Booth a second to get over his shock at her choice of phrase. But Bones was waiting on his answer—challenging him, in fact. _Are you going to let Anders fuck up your life?_

"No, Bones." He met her feral smile with one of his own. "I sure as hell am not."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

They took to the dance floor, and once Booth had Brennan in his arms, every negative thought went right out of his head.

He placed his hand on her waist as she put hers on his shoulder, but instead of paying attention to him, she was watching the other couples. One was about their age, and two looked at least seventy. The old folks were stepping along with measured, practiced grace.

"Oh, Booth—!" Bones turned to him. "Foxtrot. Can we try it?"

"Um, I don't really know—"

"Neither do I. Let's just watch and learn. Come on…" The eagerness in her eyes was too hard to ignore.

They gave it a shot.

Booth supposed that in actual ballroom dancing, they'd be gliding around the floor with large, fluid strides. The older couple who moved most smoothly together—they weren't gliding, but they twitched their hips in time with the music. They stepped forward, back, and to the side, like they were pushing, then drawing their partner to them.

He and Bones managed a few steps in imitation.

He was concentrating too hard—on his feet, and her feet; her hips, and her hand in his—that he didn't notice much else, aside from the music. Sinatra crooned to swirling background music, while horns bugled out between the phrases.

"No, Booth, it's slow-slow, quick-quick." Bones was laughing at his mistakes, and at her own.

"Ouch, Bones, watch it!"

"Sorry. I kicked your medial malleolus. Are you okay?"

He grinned. "My ankles are tough. I can take it."

The retired couple had noticed their observation, and smiled indulgently. When their steps took them near to each other, the old man leaned toward Booth and said, "Just keep doing what she tells you, son. You'll get the hang of it."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

After a couple Sinatra numbers, they returned to the table for a meal. Zack and Hodgins were still quarreling, this time about portion sizes and cooking temperatures and whether they were sharing any of the fries.

Angela smiled as Brennan and Booth sat down, then rolled her eyes. "Honestly, those two are like little brothers, always arguing."

As everyone was finishing their food, Booth told Bones in an undertone that there was plenty of tequila left in the bottle they'd started. But Angela announced it to the whole table and begged, "Hey, let us in on the action."

Hodgins chimed in. "Come on, shots all around."

Bones looked at Booth, and the two made a show of reluctance, not wanting to share their drinks. "That's right, anthropologist," Cam said, nudging Bones in the arm. "Drinking is a social activity!"

"All right…" Brennan feigned capitulation. "But we'll only share if you give us the day off tomorrow." She was being more playful than Booth had seen her in, well, ever.

Cam narrowed her eyes. "The _morning _off. Then, depending on how good this stuff is—" she gestured toward the bar, "maybe we can re-negotiate."

There were a few cheers, and they all lined up at the bar. Drinks poured, glasses in hand. "Bottoms up," Caroline said, and they all drank.

Sweets coughed, Cam laughed, and Zack said, "Wow. That… I am unable to adequately describe that experience."

Hodgins started making fun of him, and Booth watched their antics. Cam was measuring out how many drinks were left in the bottle, whereas Caroline pleaded "old age, and I need my beauty sleep tonight," and returned to her seat at the table.

Then Booth realized that Brennan and Angela had disappeared. He figured, to the ladies' room. But when Angela returned alone, he got worried. "Relax, big guy," Angela said. "She just stepped out for some fresh air. She's fine."

Booth had to go see for himself. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair and walked to the front entrance. Outside, there was a bench off to the left, under an awning. Bones sat there between two little decorative pine trees. She'd put her coat on, and was watching the pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the cars passing just beyond.

He went over, cautiously.

"Bones? Everything okay?"

She looked up. "Yes. More than okay, actually."

He nodded at the bench, asking to sit, and she scooted over.

"What does that mean?"

She glanced toward the street, gathering her thoughts. "It means… I came outside, so I could go back in. And they'd all still be there. For me. With me."

Booth wanted to hug her. "Because you've got people?"

"Yeah." They smiled at each other.

The night air was cold and damp, and they could see their breath when they spoke.

Bones had sobered. "This is what I meant when… The weekend after we testified, and I said I was lucky, and you hit the wall with your hand, because it made you angry..."

He remembered.

"Even though we had that anxiety," she said, "about being back in that courtroom today, and seeing Anders, and waiting for the verdict… I still have this… calm." She clasped her hands in her lap. "I felt that… no matter what happened, I would be okay, because I had all of you. You would have… all of you would have done everything you could. If Anders had gotten off, you would not have let that stand."

Booth was nodding; he had told her as much.

They glanced up as a group of twenty-somethings tripped by on the sidewalk, laughing.

"What you were saying about women in other countries…" Booth had felt he was missing something, when they'd had this discussion the first time. "You felt lucky in comparison to them?"

"And in comparison to me. I mean, how things used to be for me."

Booth still didn't quite understand. Was it more than his standing up for her in the courtroom, when the defense lawyer accused her of lying?

Bones seemed to read his mind. "So many people don't have anyone to stand up for them. I didn't, for a long time. And now I do.

"With this trial, I realized it's not about the science. Well, of course it is," she said, before he could look shocked. "It's how we prove what happened. But we wouldn't be able to _use _the science, if not for the _people_. Everyone who makes that case possible. You, Angela, Caroline, Cam, the court system—everyone reacted with outrage and anger. You agreed that Anders and Rawling were in violation of socially accepted behavior, and you went to seek justice."

Booth wasn't sure where this speech was coming from, but he wasn't going to stop her. Trust Bones to never just eat, drink and be merry. She always found some pattern to analyze.

"I am glad," she said, "to be in a place where people feel, and act, on my behalf. It's not like so many other times and places, that I've seen while traveling, or studying, or in my own life… Where, when bad things happen, people _don't _stand up for each other—out of fear, or powerlessness, or ignorance. But now…" She tilted her head toward the building where their friends waited. "I have this place, and these people, who care, and fight."

Booth had to remind himself to breathe. Softly, he said, "I'll fight, Bones. You always do, too. We just try to be worthy of you." He arched an eyebrow, and she wrinkled her nose at his hyperbole. But she didn't rebuke him for it. Her eyes were too bright with emotion. Bright, and darker than usual, because the awning cast a shadow, shielding them from city lights.

Booth had inched closer to her, so that his left knee touched her right. Now he reached for her hand, the only way he could think to show what he was feeling.

He drew her hand up, so he could press his palm flat against hers. Brennan watched him, curious. But her eyes shifted to their hands, when his fingers parted hers. He laced their fingers together, a bit uncomfortably at first: their skin cold from sitting outside, and their knuckles sliding against each other. But then she lifted her wrist to mesh their hands fully together, and when his palm touched hers again, it felt warm, and pleasing, and right.

Booth held on for another moment, without speaking, and he thought he saw her breath quicken, her eyes dropping to his mouth.

He said, "Come on, baby. Let's go back inside."

They stood up, and it wasn't until he released her hand and guided her toward the door that she said, "Booth! Don't call me that."

"I know, I know. Because—what is it? Here you are, glad to be in this place, in this country, where women are treated as equals—"

"For the _most _part—"

"—And what do I do? I have to go and ruin it."

They went back into the bar together, smiling as they argued.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **At first I was not going to describe the B/B dancing because I had no ideas. But I thought maybe you'd kill me if I skipped it… so I got on that amazing thing called the internet, to learn more about foxtrot and music that matches it, and after a bit, the ideas started to develop. Thank goodness.

Last scene: the interlaced fingers thing? And Booth calling her "baby" (while she's awake this time)—Unplanned. Heat of the moment. Man, I love writing. And B/B, of course.


	81. Chapter 81

**A/N: **Yet more dancing! This section is getting rather long and there's actually no point to it… except enjoyment. OMG, does that mean I'm writing fluff instead of angst? What's the world coming to?

Thank you very much to Amilyn for a beta read, despite her tough week.

Credit also goes to mendenbar for inspiring me with the squint-talk about hangovers and congeners.

**Part 81**

As soon as Booth and Brennan re-entered the bar, Angela appeared and grabbed her friend by the hand. "Dancing, Sweetie. You and me. Let's go."

Booth watched Angela lead the way, pulling a reluctant Brennan, as they threaded their way through the tables toward the dance floor. A Latin beat now pumped from the jukebox, and Angela was already prancing, moving her hips to the music and twirling one hand in the air over her head.

Booth went back over to the bar where Zack and Hodgins slouched on stools. "I mean, tomorrow's Friday," Hodgins was saying. "What's the point of Cam having us come in just for the afternoon?"

"You're independently wealthy," Zack pointed out. "If you don't like the way she does things, you have the option of leaving."

"You mean quit? Come on… I have to put my three doctorates to use somehow."

They glanced up to acknowledge Booth, who leaned an elbow on the bar and gazed across the room toward the dance floor. It was situated in the corner, with a window in each wall. One overlooked an alley; the other showed dark buildings and the twinkle of city lights. Lights glowed inside, too, from strings of tiny red and white bulbs stretching over the dance floor.

When Booth looked at his partner, she seemed self conscious. (The way Angela had sashayed across the room had attracted the attention of half the men in here.) The artist had taken Brennan's hands and both women were twisting their shoulders back and forth. Then Angela said something that looked encouraging, and Booth imagined it was, 'Come on, Sweetie. You and Booth looked pretty damn good up here a while ago. Just close your eyes and _feel _the music.'

Next to him, the squints went on talking, this time about ways to avoid a hangover—although they hadn't taken any of those precautions today. Sweets and Caroline were engaged in conversation at a nearby table, while Cam eyed a tall, rugged-looking man sitting at the far end of the bar.

The girls were now dancing a basic kind of step, in time with the drum and horns. Brennan and Angela faced each other, swaying their hips with mincing steps. A four-count, Booth realized: they would step forward with a hip rotation, turning the front knee to the side, then back for the other three counts.

Angela was getting into it, adding a shimmy to her movements. She wore a purple and white blouse with a ruffle down the front, and a skirt with a matching flounce. Taking handfuls of fabric, she swished the skirt back and forth, laughing.

Brennan's black dress was too business-like to swish, but the skirt did shift with her movements, flaring out a little when she spun in a circle.

"…says it was aged six months." Zack was looking at the nearly-empty bottle of tequila.

"The longer the aging," Hodgins said, "the smoother the taste. But the aging process does develop more congeners, and those are the little bastards that give you such a miserable hangover."

"I am aware of how the fermentation process works," Zack said peevishly.

Booth glanced at the other dancers on the floor, noting that the retired crowd must have gone home. And that was probably for the best, because one couple looked like they were auditioning for a remake of _Dirty Dancing_, the way they were trying to either melt or grind right into each other. The other dancers were much more average, but despite that pair nearly having vertical sex, Booth only had eyes for Bones.

The music changed, bringing in more guitar and a sharper beat. Angela reached for Brennan's arm, crying, "Wait, wait! Mambo. You take the guy's part."

Booth watched them move close and try to get in synch, Angela stepping back while Bones stepped forward. They were all twisting hips and high-stepping feet, with skirts riding tantalizingly up their knees.

"You're the one who asked about hangovers," Hodgins said, "so you should…" Then he saw Booth watching the dance floor. He looked, and fell silent. Zack was still talking, but he too noticed where Hodgins was looking. All three men leaned on the bar, watching Brennan and Angela.

"That," Hodgins drawled, "is so hot."

"You said that about the delivery woman," Zack reminded him. "I still think it would be hotter if they were dancing with me."

"You dance like a marionette," scoffed Hodgins. "A drunken one."

Zack was too enthralled to answer. Booth wished the squints hadn't noticed, but he really couldn't begrudge them this kind of view.

Bones and Angela were watching each other's feet, hands clasped, swiveling their hips while they focused on the moves. He could see Brennan relaxing into the music, her body catching the beat more easily; as if concentrating on the type of dance had freed her to enjoy it. A minute later Angela botched the steps, and fell on Brennan's shoulders, laughing.

The girls let go of each other, but continued to dance together, while the song's back-up singers chanted hypnotically, and the female lead reeled out a tale of erotic heartbreak.

It looked, now, like Bones was competing with Angela for the sexiest hip movements. They were twirling their wrists in slow circles, their hips rolling and undulating. Both were grinning, encouraging each other. Angela took Brennan's hand and spun her, and when she ended up facing away, Angela butted up against her, placing her hands on the other woman's hips. "Whoo-oo!" she laughed. "Shake it, baby." She rocked her own hips in unison, like they were in a mini conga line, until Brennan thrust playfully backward, pushing Angela away.

"Oh, man," Hodgins groaned. "It's worth saying again: that is so hot."

Sweets had showed up, and leaned against the bar on Booth's other side. He still had that stupid tie wrapped around his head, and his lips were rather pink, as if he'd just been kissing some co-ed in a shadowy corner.

Booth felt somehow angry that they were all watching Bones, like she was entertainment. But he was glad to see her cut loose a little. Besides, Angela was out there, egging her on, and… Booth might as well take advantage of the opportunity.

"Hey," he said to Hodgins, "the two of them, they ever…?"

"What?" Hodgins tore his eyes away from the dance floor and its pulsing, spicy music. "Oh... No, I don't think… I mean, Dr. B's not…" Then he gave Booth a sneaky smile. "You wanna watch, huh? Get a little threesome action there, G-man?"

"All right, shut up."

"All I know is, Angela has some paintings and sketches that she did—nude ones—that, you know, _might _look something like…" He nodded toward Brennan on the dance floor.

Sweets stood up straighter and said, "Actually, this bar—and nude portraits too—represent a safe environment where women can engage in sexually provocative behavior, with a non-judging, same-gender friend, who—"

"Sweets, do me a favor. Stop talking." Booth yanked the tie down the kid's forehead, so it covered his eyes.

"Ow." Sweets rubbed his ear where the tie had gotten stuck, and smiled sheepishly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Somehow, the squints got distracted from their observation, and went with Sweets to another corner, challenging each other about who could prevail in a game of darts.

Booth was left to watch in privacy.

The music changed again, to a deep, thumping beat, with maracas creating a lighter counterpoint. The rhythm reverberated in his chest, and low down in his belly. It was infectious; it was hard to listen and not start moving. All the dancers felt it too, gyrating with renewed energy—Bones included.

But she paused, after the last song's twirl and stomp, as if letting the beat get inside of her. Then, she started to move.

She kept her feet in place, but balanced wide apart, her body no less fluid for not doing actual steps. Her eyes closed, her head rolling sensuously from side to side. Her knees bent a little, and she twisted her shoulders, pivoting on one toe. And her hips… Oh, God, her hips. They tracked the beat like a pendulum. Heavy, mobile. Plush with health and lassitude. Simple side-to-side at first. But then they drew little swirls and circles. Subtle thrusts on the beat, on the beat.

Booth's eyes trailed over her shapely calves and trim arms, pale against the black dress.

Another lock of hair had come loose from the knot at the back of her head. She'd been tucking it behind her ear, but it wouldn't stay. Without breaking her rhythm, her hands lifted to free it from its up-do. Pulling the elastic away and shaking her head, Brennan let her hair fall in loose waves around her shoulders. Her head tipped back, baring her throat, and she ran her hands through her hair, one luxurious time.

Booth thought it was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen.

Now she described slow circles with her arms, as if swimming. It looked gentle, but you could sense the concealed power. Booth had seen the kind of blows she could mete out with an elbow or a fist.

As her hips writhed right and left, she wrapped her arms over her chest and up to her face, like swathing herself in fabric—then pushing the veil away, her fingers spread into the air over her head.

_She can't raise her arms, because of the rib injuries_. Angela had told him, quietly, the first week after the assault. _She's wearing a lot of button-front shirts. Otherwise, I have to help her dress and undress_.

Booth blinked the memory away, watching Bones.

Her hands pumped softly in the air over her head, an effortless flowing with the music. Her hips never stopped their lazy rock and roll.

The hard surface of the bar dug into Booth's elbow, but by now he felt like he could melt right into it. He was appreciating the contrast of Brennan's dress, almost martial-looking, with her loose hair and unrestrained motion.

Her dancing seemed to last forever, and not long enough. Just a few minutes, really, for this beautiful lack of logic, lack of thought.

Angela was doing her own thing on the dance floor, not interfering with Brennan in any way.

In a moment the song would end, and Bones would come back to herself. She would retreat to a table with Angela, flushed and giggling, smoothing her dress or her hair.

But right now she was an unconscious column of rhythm, and he reveled in it.

He watched her undulate through a final twirl, under the pretty light strings garlanding the dance floor. The silver buttons on the front of her dress caught glints from the red and white lights, and they winked like little gems.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **To get in the appropriate mood for this chapter (and to borrow a few active verbs), I read the beginning of The Bet, and The Ugly Truth (on LJ's Kink in the Bones). Both feature hot dances, between Brennan/Booth and Emily/David, respectively.

Okay, I know you're all probably asking WHY ISN'T BOOTH GETTING IN ON THE DANCING? Sorry, friends. Not yet. This is Brennan's show.


	82. Chapter 82

**A/N: **Last time: Brennan got her mojo back. There are only a few chapters left, for her to decide if she's going to _act _on it. Booth, at the bar, knew to stand back and watch her enjoy it, as pointed out by one of my insightful readers. To paraphrase that comment, he knows when to go in and grab her, and when to stand back and let her find herself again.

Now it's time for our new favorite program, _Art Interlude with Angela._

**Part 82**

The next afternoon, Sweets left identical messages for Booth and Brennan. "Now that I've recovered from that evening of drunken revelry, I wanted to tell you that I'm reinstating your murder-solving partnership. So, as of Monday—although murders don't exactly confine themselves to a nine-to-five workweek—I'll give Cullen my recommendation, and you'll be good to go.

"Of course, I'll still see you at the regular time for therapy sessions, and we'll be alert to any evolving issues that we might need to deal with. But I think… I've been observing you, for instance last night, and casual interactions are often more revealing than scheduled sessions. Basically, you look really good to me. Your partnership is solid. Although," Sweets said just before he hung up, "your foxtrot needs work."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

That weekend, Angela invited Brennan to her apartment for dinner, followed by an art viewing.

The mystery painting resided under a cloth, on an easel in the corner. Angela insisted on eating first, as if to prolong the suspense.

"All right, for dinner…" She rattled some pots and pans, waving a recipe in the air. "We had this at a restaurant I went to with Hodgins, and I wanted to learn how to make it. Polenta and grilled pear with cream sauce. It sounds fancy, but is luckily not that complicated. Except for the sauce. I warn you now: I might ruin it.

"And these pear halves…" Angela brandished a knife and pointed at the fruit now resting on the counter. "They're supposed to be grilled, too, but we could just have them fresh, because I know you don't like your fruit cooked. Or is that just something you tell Booth?"

"What?" Brennan looked up from the silverware she was setting on the table. "Are you implying I lie to Booth? I don't lie to him. I don't lie to anyone."

"I _know_. Ever since that shopping trip when you told me my ass looked big in that skirt…"

"Ange, that was _five _years ago. And that is not a verbatim account of what I said."

"Sorry, Sweetie." Angela smiled. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

After they'd eaten, Angela unveiled her painting.

"I'm not going to say anything, okay? I'll just show it to you."

The two women stood in the corner that made up her home art studio, surrounded by paint-splattered drop cloths, brushes and drawing pads arranged in an organized sort of chaos.

Brennan didn't know what to expect, but then, Angela often did unexpected things. First she'd announced she was inspired, that evening they'd run on treadmills following Brennan's testimony. Then Ange had asked her to pose for a few sketches, including ones at the firing range where she'd aimed a weapon.

Now Angela reached to pull the cloth off the canvas, biting her lip in a way that looked both nervous and eager.

The canvas was roughly the size of a poster, about thirty inches high by twenty wide. Brennan saw herself depicted, just left of center in the foreground. She wore a gauzy white dress and was walking toward the viewer, down a dirt path that had just emerged from a dense forest. The path curved diagonally across the painting, disappearing into dark trees in the upper right corner. Greenery grew thick on either side, while a strip of night sky shone above.

The painted Brennan looked like she might have been running and had come to graceful slow-down. She seemed to place her feet carefully, alert and stalking. She held a bow angled down in her left hand, with an arrow in her right, nocked loosely to the string. (This, perhaps, was why Angela had studied her with a gun in her hands.) A quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder, and she looked ready to lift the bow and shoot at a moment's notice.

The bow and arrow, with the white dress and crescent moon riding high in the sky, told Brennan that Angela had borrowed from Classical mythology. She'd painted her in the guise of Diana or Artemis, the goddess associated with the moon and hunting, as well as purity, fertility, and wilderness.

The painted dress flowed to her knees in airy folds, appropriate for the theme of ancient-forest-deity. But the way it clung to her torso made Brennan wonder if Angela had taken poetic license: her body looked more lusciously athletic than she could quite take credit for. The dress's cap sleeves seemed to flutter over her shoulders in a light breeze, almost reminiscent (as Booth might think) of angel wings.

Brennan found it odd to consider her own face in a painting. She was looking slightly to one side, not quite at the viewer. Angela had struck a nice balance in her style, portraying Bren's features without striving for an overly precise, photographic realism.

Her expression seemed focused and wary, not at all afraid. She looked committed to going forward on this path, meeting any obstacle head-on. If necessary, she would bring the bow up with its string drawn tight, look you in the eye, and shoot you.

Brennan cast a wondering look at Angela, who met her gaze with a little grin as if to say, 'Yeah? You like it?' Bren just shook her head in amazement, and went back to surveying the picture.

She could almost smell the pine needles and ferns at the edge of the path. It wound diagonally, dividing the bottom of the painting from the top. Ominous outlines lurked above, but Brennan stood bathed in light.

She had come through the dark forest. Its thick trees suggested hidden shapes: twisted shadows, eerie angles and curves. As Brennan stared at the black and green thicket, her brain supplied potential images: stags with sharp antlers, or snakes hanging menacingly from trees. A man wearing a ritual headdress, or another man holding a gun.

But the painted Brennan had made it through, unharmed and un-cowed. Or, almost unharmed. She had a trickle of blood on one elbow. Just visible, at the angle she held the bow—a scarlet cut, as though she'd been scratched by low-hanging branches in the forest.

Brennan realized it was her left arm, the one she had hurt when tripping a suspect in that alleyway. She touched her elbow now, feeling the little indented scar. "Ange," she said, "how did you… why did you…?"

Her friend seemed to know what she was asking. "I just thought to show… maybe you didn't come out of there completely unscathed. I wanted some outward sign. But it's nothing that would slow you down. Not for a second." Her eyes showed a hint of sadness, but her tone was proudly assertive.

Bren was sure this painting had to do with the assault, rather than general challenges of crime-fighting. But Angela had conflated the alley chase with earlier events, making it part of her artistic mythology.

Brennan nodded her acceptance, and turned back to the painting. There was an element she hadn't yet considered. At the right side, an animal crouched in the foliage. Brennan had been so busy looking at herself, the focal point, that she had neglected it.

It was a wolf. Close to the center of the piece, just behind the painted Bren striding along the path, it sat tall among tufted grass and ferns. It wasn't moving, but like her, it seemed ready for anything. At any moment, he (somehow Brennan knew it was a he) would get up, and fall into step beside her.

The canine face was aimed at the woman on the path, attuned to her, as though she were his mistress—the goddess's hunting companion. An onlooker saw his face in a three-quarter view, and the expression in the eyes, the tilt of the ears… Brennan could see so many emotions, she wasn't sure how to name them all.

The eyes were soft, but held pain. Maybe sorrow, maybe guilt—things that her painted self was free of. And the jaw, with tiny glints of canine teeth, promised ferocity.

Something about the furry eyebrows, Brennan mused… (Dogs did have eyebrows, although she couldn't have said so definitively before now.) The brows arched up a little, and the warm brown eyes…

They reminded her of Booth. It was ridiculous. Yet, there it was.

Angela watched her, seeing where she was looking on the canvas. "Well?" she finally asked. "What's that expression mean, Brennan? You're thinking something, I know you are."

"This animal you painted," she began tentatively. "It doesn't make sense, but…"

Angela raised her brows, waiting. "Yeah?"

"It just feels like… He reminds me of Booth."

Ange was almost beside herself with joy. "Sweetie, you got it!" She gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "See, I'm not nuts after all. It _is_ Booth! Because you do this hunting-bad-guys thing together. He's loyal and brave and a protector… And the way he's looking at you," she said wistfully, "with puppy-like adoration…"

Bren ignored that, asking, "How did you decide to paint him there?"

"Well, I didn't go into it thinking I had to include Booth somehow. It just…happened. See, compositionally, I knew it needed something there, other than just plant life." Angela gestured at that part of the painting. "I thought an animal was a likely thing to find in a forest, only I didn't know _what_. I guess it was going to be cat, at first… or a literal scapegoat, taking on the negative emotions that I wanted you to be free of. But when I started painting it… like, without conscious volition, it wanted to be a dog—you know, a wolf. And the ears," Ange reached out as if to sculpt their shapes, "they just went like that, and then the brown eyes, and I just thought, hey—it's Booth." She turned back to her friend. "I laughed at myself a little, yeah. But…he _wanted _to be there, Bren. That's what the painting was telling me."

"So…" Brennan eyed the picture, then Angela. "You're saying Booth is my faithful guard dog?"

"Well, Sweetie…" Her smile looked amused, but sincere. "In a way, he is."

Brennan glanced back at the wolf. "He looks so… melancholy."

"Yeah…" Angela considered her artwork. "But it's not _only _that… And maybe it's not fair to put the negative stuff on him, but… That's how it turned out. I'm not even sure how I did it, now."

Bren shook her head in wonder. "You must really have been paying attention, when we watched that computer-generated undersea movie."

"You mean _Finding Nemo_?"

"Yes, and we talked about the graphics crew being able to render human expressions on animal faces. You must have really learned something."

Angela made self-effacing noises, while Brennan took another moment to appreciate the painting's colors, and her friend's skill.

She had painted the band of sky at the top a deep twilight blue. The moon hung in the center, sending its silvery light to film the edges of clouds. Below the swath of dark trees, lighter green foliage fanned out toward the viewer. The dirt path was a light brown ribbon; the wolf's fur, darker brown with gray.

Brennan's dress shone milky white against the nature colors and the warm tones of her skin. The arrow, metal-tipped, glinted in the moonlight; the same light that glowed gently on her skin, silvering one shoulder and cheekbone. At the base of her throat, too, Angela's strokes of color suggested light or moisture on the skin. A faint sheen of mingled sweat and moonlight.

Brennan looked back to her friend, now. She was amazed that Angela had taken so much time. That she'd crafted this heroic, loving portrait.

"Well," the artist asked, "what's your final verdict, Bren? I mean, how does it make you feel?"

Brennan pulled her friend into an impetuous hug, squeezing tight, tight, before she let her go.

"Wow," Angela chuckled. "I guess that means you like it."

"I don't know if I fully understand it," Brennan said. "It makes me feel a little sad, but… powerful."

"Sweetie." Angela's face held quiet gladness. "That's exactly what I wanted."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **It's been a harsh week of weather in many areas, with wind, water or fire, so I hope you are all safe. I live relatively near the Fourmile Canyon wildfire in Colorado. My neighborhood is safe, but close enough to see the smoke, smell the charred campfire smell for days, and see bits of ash scattering the sidewalk. Plus my place of work is being used as a Red Cross shelter for people who had to evacuate their homes. Suffice it to say I've been pensive this week. And homesick for my family in the humid Midwest.


	83. Chapter 83

**A/N: **I found myself rather uninspired this week, and came up with most of this section at the last minute. My writing muscles must've been tired from the last two description-rich chapters. For this part, I needed a transition, to wind down gradually, rather than leaping straight to the ending scenes.

**Part 83**

The following week, Brennan resumed her usual schedule. Examining Limbo skeletons, taking notes for her novel, and consulting about crime lab x-rays and museum specimens.

Wednesday morning, she looked up to find Booth in the doorway of her office.

"We've got a case."

He told her about it while they drove to the scene. Remains had been found lodged under a little-used bridge, probably carried by spring runoff.

"What is it with bodies in ditches lately?" Booth asked, and Brennan knew he was referring to their previous case: the victim Serge Gnahoui, whose bones had been found face down in a muddy, dried-up ditch.

"Two bodies over several months," she said, "hardly makes for a pattern."

Booth smiled as though he'd expected that response.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

On the way back from the scene, Booth asked, "So, Bones, this homeless guy. Did he fall into the stream and hit his head, or was he pushed?"

Brennan wiggled her toes in her boots, wishing she had taken them off before getting back in the car.

"I never said he was homeless, I merely said there were possible signs of malnutrition on the bones, which could have…"

"I know," he waved her off, "there are other explanations. But work with me here—it's called positing a scenario."

"It's useless conjecture, until we get more information back at the lab."

But Booth could not be subdued. He began voicing ever more implausible scenarios to account for the body in the stream.

"How about this: homeless guy runs into a drug deal taking place under the bridge, and they shove him into the water to shut him up. Or, he and a buddy dreamed of striking it rich, so they entered the lottery and actually won, and they were fighting over the winning ticket."

Brennan shook her head at such rampant speculation, but she saw the brightness in his eyes when he glanced at her, and realized it was because he was happy.

"Wait, wait, I know…" Booth invented another idea, this time veering into the purposefully absurd, trying to make her laugh.

She couldn't bring herself to point out that it was impolite to be so cheerful after leaving a crime scene. Because she was happy, too. They were back, working together. With no trial hanging over their heads. No criminals who'd escaped justice.

Just Booth and Brennan, cop and scientist. Partners, friends.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

The next evening, Brennan stood over the exam table, studying the bones arrayed there. Nearly everyone had gone home; only occasional footfalls echoed from the corridor outside. Behind her, the drawers of comparative specimens seemed to glow, while the air recyclers whooshed softly overhead.

She and Zack had completed the initial analysis: Male, approximately sixty years old. Caucasian, of average height and build. The injury marring the cranium could have proved fatal, but Cam thought it was likely he'd been knocked unconscious, and then drowned. Those marks on the skull could have been caused by accident rather than foul play. But she her team would, of course, study further.

Now, Brennan was not searching for anything specific. She sometimes craved these moments alone with the bones. Usually when the case had reached an obstacle, but this time, she simply wanted to get a feel for the remains. It sounded too subjective, yes. But studying them, turning them, weighing them in her hands… It helped her think, and form hypotheses.

She realized that Booth's "homeless guy" label was a potentially accurate one: a reasonable explanation for why the man had taken such poor care of himself in recent years. Here—she picked up a phalange—was arthritic lipping at the joint. And here, along the femur, were stress lines that could have resulted from malnutrition. Not in the sense of starvation, but lacking vital nutrients from protein, fruits and vegetables.

Brennan picked up the sacrum, next. She had found uneven wear patterns that suggested his lower back had been slightly misaligned. There… she turned the rounded triangle of the sacrum, to peer at its top edge: small cups of bone formed the superior articular surfaces, to meet the lumbar vertebrae. And along the upper sides of the triangle: unequal wear on the auricular surfaces, where the sacrum joined the ilia.

This man, Brennan thought, would have benefited from a chiropractor. The misalignment and deterioration could have caused chronic pain or injury.

She turned the sacrum to the side, eying its inward curve. The arc was less pronounced in females, allowing for a larger pelvic cavity. In her mind, Brennan could still see other pelvic bones she had gazed at in detail: those of Miranda Charles. She had held them in her hands and traced their youthful lines. She had imagined flesh covering the bones, and wondered whether Anders had raped the girl, before killing her. There had not been enough soft tissue left to draw conclusions.

Soft tissue, Brennan thought. Mine healed after the rape, much faster than the rib injuries. The minor damage to the vaginal walls and vestibule—though it didn't _feel _minor—had healed quickly, as the doctors said it would. Now, if Cam were to perform a scan like the one she'd done of the girl's pelvis, mine would have no blemishes. Physically, like the assault had never occurred.

Brennan put the sacrum back on the table, returning her thoughts to bones. Others that had rested here: Miranda Charles with a bullet hole in her skull. Serge Gnahoui with blunt force trauma to his.

While investigating those crimes, Brennan thought, Booth and I were harmed. Some of it, in ways you could see. Her own ribs would show remodeled fractures. The skin on her elbow, a little scar.

Booth had not sustained tangible injuries, this time. She thought of the way he sometimes glanced at her, with those lines on his forehead and the darkness in his eyes, and she knew—irrationally _knew_—he was thinking of the assault.

Now Brennan drew her fingers along the ribcage in front of her, recalling her partner's x-rays. The scars left on his ribs, and the bones of his feet. The aftermath of battle.

But, as Angela might phrase it, _their _long battle was over. Brennan looked up from the bones on the table, thinking of her friend's painting, and the bar last week. She and Booth had danced—or tried—the foxtrot. She had stepped on his feet, he had stepped on hers, and they had laughed, together.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Hey, Brennan." Angela walked in, holding a clipboard.

"Ange, I was just thinking about you. What are you doing here this time of night?"

"I should ask you the same question. Unfortunately, it's not that unusual for you." The artist came to stand by the exam table. "But I think I know why, Brennan. Because after hours, when the lab is all quiet and empty…" She lowered her voice, "it's more likely the bones will whisper their secrets to you." Her lips curved in a mysterious smile.

"Angela, you know I don't believe any such thing."

"Okay," she admitted. "As long as you didn't forget to eat this time…"

Brennan started to peel off her gloves. "No, I picked up something on the way back, after karate."

"Well," Angela gestured at the skull, "I was going to ask if you had the tissue markers ready for me, and if you still needed a facial reconstruction."

"I might, because Odontology is taking a very long time with the dental records. There might be a match, but the last set of x-rays was so out of date, they needed time to verify. Apparently this man went for many years without dental care." Brennan frowned in the direction of the mandible.

Then she glanced back at Angela. "I'll put the tissue markers on tomorrow, if we need them. So, what _are _you doing here so late?"

"Hodgins wanted to finish some of the particulate analysis, so I decided to hang out with him. We ordered takeout, and it gave me some time to digitize a few pieces of artwork I'd been meaning to get to. Including," Angela touched Brennan's arm, "the famous painting of _you_. I still think you should have it, Sweetie."

"And I still think it's too great a gift. Although, now that you've scanned it, I would be happy to own a copy." She held her friend's gaze. "But you should have the original."

"Bren… I _want _you to have it."

"I know, and it's beautiful, Ange. It's just… It's _your _work. I feel like you should keep it… even if I can't explain why."

"Okay, honey. When you figure it out, you let me know." Angela smiled, keeping her words gentle.

"Now," she changed the subject, "you're _sure _Booth said he was coming this weekend, right?"

"For the third time, yes." Brennan sighed, amused rather than impatient. "He still thinks you're making this a 'double date,' but yes."

"Me?" Angela said with false innocence. "Play matchmaker?"

Brennan gave her a doubting look, before gathering up her notes.

"You finally ready to get out of here?" the artist asked.

Brennan nodded, but turned back to the bones for a moment, to make sure they lay in proper alignment on the table.

"No," Angela continued, "Booth probably just wants to make fun of Hodgins for having so much money. Virtually the whole point was for Booth to see the place, since he missed out when the whole group came over."

Brennan turned away from the bones, satisfied, and the two women headed for the door.

"He doesn't have Parker this weekend?"

"He does," Brennan said, flipping the lights off, "but just on Sunday. Parker has an event Saturday, with his peer group. A birthday party, Booth said."

"So, Booth doesn't have to miss any time with his son," Angela concluded, "in order to spend time with _his _peer group. Now, Bren…" They stopped just past the threshold. "Maybe we could hang out before going to Jack's place. Yoga, running, coffee? Not necessarily in that order?"

Brennan locked the door behind them, and looped her arm into Angela's. "I'd like that."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I am getting paranoid as we approach the end of this tale. I worry I am forgetting something big, among the remaining scenes I have planned. I worry that this chapter was rehashing, an obvious ploy on my part to draw this story out (because what will I do without it to work on?). Asking for your views might make me MORE paranoid, but I will ask anyway: Are there scenes you really want to see, before the end? (But if you say smut, I'm afraid you're out of luck. There's a chance I will post some, but not in _this _story. :)


	84. Chapter 84

**A/N: **Short chapter. I'm still working on the rest, but this should tide you over for a couple days.

**Part 84**

On Saturday, Brennan and Angela went running on the canal towpath. Not in memory of a murdered girl, this time. Just to enjoy the activity, the scenery and each other's company.

After warming up, they settled into an easy jog. On one side of the path, tree branches filtered the weak sunlight. Canal water rippled on the other side, and gravel crunched underfoot.

Someone called, "on your left," and the women kept close to the right while a mountain bike whirred by.

Brennan glanced back to make sure the path was clear, then asked, "What time did Hodgins say we should be there this afternoon?"

"Around three or four, so we could tour the grounds or whatever, and then have an early dinner."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can bring? Booth still wanted to take beer or wine. I don't think he trusts Hodgins' taste in alcohol."

"Tell him not to worry, Sweetie. We've got it covered."

Angela let Brennan go ahead of her, as they jogged around a pair of walkers. Ahead was a bend in the path, and now they watched a man come into view, running toward them. He was about their age, and despite the cool weather, wore running shorts and a skin-tight shirt.

They both watched as he approached: his strong, easy strides, and the well-defined muscles in his chest and thighs.

"Ooh," Angela murmured, "he is _hot_."

"Yes, he is."

Angela grinned at Bren's response. "How would you like to unwrap _that _package? Mm, I could peel that shirt off with my teeth."

"Don't let Hodgins hear you say that."

"No," Angela chuckled, "we have an agreement. It's called looky no touchy."

By now the man had jogged past them, and Brennan turned to glance at his retreating form.

"Brennan!" Angela grinned even wider, pretending to be scandalized. "Did you just check out his _ass_?"

Bren smiled, looking pleased with herself. "Yes. And his shoulders and his calves…"

"So…" Angela's eyes twinkled. "You want to chase after him, then?"

The smile faded. "No."

Angela slowed to a walk, both to catch her breath, and to get a better look at Brennan's face. "Sweetie, you do know I'm teasing you, right?"

"I know. It's just…" The breeze blew a strand of hair across her face and she brushed it impatiently away.

"You're just not ready," Angela asked as they rounded a curve in the path, "to jump back into the dating pool?"

"I don't know that I was ever _in _the dating pool. I did things more simply than that. If I saw someone who was sexually attractive, I wouldn't have thought twice about...pursuing him."

"And now?"

"Now… part of me thinks I should just call up an old partner and get it over with. They wouldn't know anything about—the rape. And that's what I want. But what if that's _not _what I want? What if I can't…?"

"Bren…" Angela frowned with concern, while they hiked up an incline under dense trees. "You know I'm never going to discourage people from having sex. But I don't think 'get it over with' is the kind of attitude we want here."

Before meeting Angela's gaze, Brennan stared down the path into the distance. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, and her eyes seemed to reflect the sky above them.

"I feel _right _again, Ange. I do. But I'm still reminded of Anders and Rawling at unexpected moments. So that… I don't know if…"

Angela could tell by Bren's expression that she wasn't fully understanding her emotions. "Look," Angela soothed, "you don't have to decide anything right now. Just take some more time, to feel things, or analyze them with that beautiful big brain of yours. And—you know, keep ogling all the gorgeous runners who go by."

"You're right." Brennan rolled her shoulders as if to loosen them or shrug off worry. "I should do both." Angela saw a trace of that old smile, the cute and maddening one, that told you Bren was a genius, and she knew it.

Now the trail angled downward, emerging into sunlight. They both sped up to a jog, so that Angela was a little breathless when she said, "But in the meantime… You can come and rummage through my naughty drawer, okay?"

Brennan laughed, and broke into a run, for the pure enjoyment of it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **In honor of the show's premiere, where Brennan returns from her fieldwork, I offer this quote. It's from one of my undergrad anthropology professors, who I'm Facebook friends with. (I used her name in chapter 28, as one of Brennan's colleagues working a dig in Portugal). In July, she posted this:

_Excavations at Bolores ended yesterday. I will miss the daily rituals of fieldwork: knowing exactly what shoes I will wear in the morning (my boots), taking photos in strange yoga-like positions (the site is on a slope...), and the slow—often silent—work of excavation._


	85. Chapter 85

**A/N: **This section brings us to another art interlude (we revisit the drawings Brennan created in Chapters 33 and 52). Wow, I realize Booth has been MIA in this story for a few chapters now, which means few B/B scenes. But don't worry, I'll make it up to him.

**Part 85**

They returned to Brennan's apartment to stretch their muscles, change clothes and have a light lunch. Angela had insisted on driving them to the social event this afternoon; perhaps, Brennan thought, so I'll have to get a ride home with Booth.

She was still in her bedroom, with a hairbrush in her hand, when she heard Angela moving around the kitchen, in search of food or utensils. She called, "I'll be right there, Ange."

But when she emerged from the hallway, Angela was not in the kitchen. She was standing by the desk in the corner, holding a piece of paper and looking… captivated.

"Bren…" she breathed. "I… This…"

It was the drawing Brennan had done of the hand and wrist bones.

"I was looking for some scratch paper…" Angela seemed to find her voice again, "because I have to remember to get out candles for tonight, but I'll probably forget if I don't write it down… And I found this."

Brennan walked over and stood next to her. She cocked her head to glance at the pencil sketches, that covered a page and a half of plain white paper.

"When did you…" Angela started, "how did you…?"

Brennan realized she must have sounded the same way, looking at Angela's painting.

"I was writing one night, trying to work on my novel. But I got restless." Briefly, she described the context of the drawings. How she'd drawn the arm bones on a whim, after Anders' arrest, but before Rawling had been located. How the sketch had come to represent _her _bones, and the metaphorical damage left by the criminals.

Angela's keen eye had found their names, obscured by lines between the arm bones. Brennan explained how she had written _Anders _and _Rawling _on bones, scratched them out, then rewritten them, trapped by the membrane.

Angela studied the drawing, holding it in both hands. "I think I get it, Bren. Those names are _there_… like, _on _you, but not _changing _you. They're not erased, but…contained." She met Brennan's eyes. "You can't forget, but you know you're safe from them."

Brennan nodded, appreciating her friend's notice, but not sure why she was so intrigued. "Aren't you hungry?" she began, with a gesture at the kitchen, but Angela seemed to have forgotten about lunch.

"What about this part?" Angela's finger traced the wrist bones with their tiny labels. _Scaphoid—Brennan. Lunate—Angela. Capitate—Booth._

"I…" Brennan realized she could not adequately explain the impulse that had prompted her to match bones with people. "It was like… equality. So the criminals' names weren't the only ones there." Angela accepted her faltering reason, and asked about the attributes she'd used to assign a certain name to a certain bone.

As Brennan finished her explanation, Angela smiled. "So, I'm the pretty feminine one, huh? And Booth is the big manly one in the center?"

"Well… yes." Brennan's eyes traveled over the mosaic of penciled bones. "Perhaps I should have switched your name with Zack's. Then you would be in the distal row of bones, closer to the 'real world'—and next to Hodgins. Whereas Zack would remain in the proximal row, corresponding to the lab. But Zack doesn't fit, as the lunate," Brennan said, "only you. Especially since you painted a crescent moon at the top of that portrait."

"Only me?" Angela echoed. "Aw, I'm flattered." She looked down at the paper again. "I like this, Bren. How you sketched the fingers lightly, so you see the complete hand," she indicated the phalanges' tapered joints, "but the viewer focuses on the darker lines and labels, of the wrist and arm bones. Because here," she tapped the carpals, "is where the real stuff is happening. The most concentrated emotion."

"But…" Brennan frowned at that choice of words. "This is nothing like your painting. The emotion there is obvious. Through your use of color and light, brushstrokes, and cultural paradigms like myth…"

Angela was shaking her head. "There's emotion here, Bren. It may be understated, in black and white rather than Technicolor, but it's there.

"I mean… here." Her finger tapped the thick, angry lines imprisoning _Anders _and _Rawling_.

"And here." She pointed to _science _paired with _investigation_, along the bones of the arm. "And especially here." Her finger swirled around the hand and wrist, including _justice _by the metacarpals; then she touched the named bones, lingering at the joining of _Booth _and _Brennan_.

"I am so proud of you," Angela said. Her eyes gleamed with the faint sheen of tears, and her pupils were dilated, so they appeared to glow. As they had a week ago, when Brennan said that the wolf, in her friend's painting, looked like Booth.

"Proud?" she echoed. "I don't have your artistic skills. This was essentially copying out of a textbook."

"It's not that, Sweetie. It's… what you said here." Her finger hovered again over the bones labeled with their names. "The whole package, Brennan. That's what matters."

Now Angela gave her a probing look. "Tell me something. Why did you draw this? How did it make you _feel _when you did it?"

Brennan looked back at the paper as if it would tell her the answer. "When I drew the second part, the wrist bones, it was shortly before my testimony at Anders' trial. And… you know that caused me a good deal of anxiety."

"Yeah," Angela said softly.

"Drawing this… I experienced a range of emotions, but I felt better, afterward. More satisfied. More… peaceful."

Angela's mouth curved in a pleased, proud smile. But something had struck Brennan, and she touched her friend's arm.

"_This _is why," she said. "Why you should keep your painting, and I should keep my sketch. Because I did this drawing for myself. Even though I was thinking about all of you while I did it, and you're represented here…" Brennan touched the edge of the paper Angela held. "Even though you appreciate it, and find it touching… I did it for _me_."

"You know I want to hug you right now, Sweetie." Angela did, squeezing her friend's shoulders with one arm. "The next time anyone says anything about you being cold and rational, I will shove this drawing in their face."

Brennan wrinkled her nose. "That would not be productive."

"Okay," Angela laughed, "no."

"Besides…" Brennan's voice softened. "You've always seen more in me than other people do."

"If that's true, they just don't know how to look. But…" Angela's voice turned thoughtful. "What you said about my painting…"

"I should ask _you_," Brennan said. "How did you feel when you created it?"

"I guess…" Her eyes slid out of focus, remembering. "I did it for you, but more for me. Since I can't go chase, tackle or shoot bad guys to work off my anger… I paint these mad black lines, like the shadows in that forest. And I paint you in a white dress, with the wolf, and the stars, to show that there's still beauty in the world… and that I'm grateful for it."

Angela placed Brennan's drawing back on the desk, reverently. Then her eyes narrowed as she turned to her friend. "Wait a minute… Are you drawing a parallel between our artwork? That it was cathartic for us? That we both used _art _as a way to deal with emotions?"

Brennan started to shake her head, but could almost hear Angela's next comment: _Don't be purposefully obtuse, Sweetie_.

So Brennan gave a mysterious half smile. "Maybe."


	86. Chapter 86

**A/N: **The research our squints discuss here is from _Science _vol. 326, 2 October 2009. Brennan and Hodgins paraphrase the article, "Rapid Resurgence of Marine Productivity After the Cretaceous-Paleogene Mass Extinction," by Sepulveda, Wendler et al.

So, if anyone has contacts in the industry and would like to offer me either a science writing or novel writing job… please do. You know how to reach me. :)

**Part 86**

Booth arrived at Hodgins' place just after Brennan and Angela. They all congregated in the kitchen, where Hodgins was handing out drinks before taking his guests on a tour of the house and grounds.

"Soda, tea or water," Angela said. "Those are your choices."

"To start us off," Hodgins put in, "because it is only the middle of the afternoon. We should probably save the hard liquor at least until nightfall."

Angela gave Brennan a box of tea packets, which she placed on the counter to rifle through, while they discussed the merits of different flavors and blends. They stood at an island at the edge of the kitchen and dining room. The counter space featured bar stools on one side, and some fancy copper pots hanging from hooks overhead.

Booth leaned on the far end of the counter, closest the windows. He couldn't help noticing how afternoon sunlight glinting on Brennan's hair was almost the same color as those copper pots.

Hodgins came over to hand Booth a glass of water, then put his own on the counter, before snagging a bar stool and sitting down next to Bones. If Booth didn't know better, he'd have thought they all tried to match what they were wearing today: the girls in casual skirts and tops, he and Hodgins in jeans and t-shirts with jackets thrown over them.

The two squints wasted little time in starting a scientific discussion. Hodgins was talking animatedly about some article in _Science_, and Bones was just egging him on.

"The volume with _Ardipithecus ramidus _on the cover?

"Uh, yeah, that's the one."

"I haven't read all the articles yet, because I was focusing on the paleo-anthropology. But I read the abstracts at the beginning. This study was about how algae recovered after the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction?"

"No, Bones," Booth groaned, "don't encourage him!"

It was too late, of course. Hodgins had already taken off on an explanation of the research.

Angela shot Booth a glance, that looked both affectionate and long-suffering. It said, 'Here we go again. But would you really try to stop them?'

"They studied the Fiskeler layer in Denmark," Hodgins was saying, "using evidence from carbon and nitrogen isotopes, as well as algal steranes and bacterial hopanes." He and Bones were sitting on adjacent stools, elbows resting on the counter, like they were in a study group together. "And all of that indicates that primary production, in terms of algae, was only reduced for a brief period—possibly less than a century after the impact, and that was followed by a resurgence in carbon fixation, and basically, ecological reorganization."

"This has been the subject of some debate, hasn't it?" Brennan asked. "The course of biotic recovery after mass extinction?"

"Yeah," Hodgins agreed. "And the impact-related disruption of photosynthesis. It's hard to tell what marine plants were doing, because of course they don't fossilize. That's why this team looked at the geochemical variation of that boundary layer in Denmark."

Angela had shifted over, closer to Booth's end of the counter. Now she smiled playfully at him, showing off the dimple in her cheek. "Do you think they'd even notice," she murmured, "if we started making out right now?"

Booth had to grin. He let his eyes narrow, and his voice lower, teasing her right back. "Probably not. You want to find out?"

But then Brennan glanced at them, as if to include them in the discussion, and make sure they would benefit from the information she and Hodgins were dispensing.

"…Graphed the thermal maturity indexes, and…"

"Hodgins," Angela interrupted. "English, please."

"Okay—" Hodgins slid off his chair so he was free to make bigger hand gestures. "Massive asteroid hits the Yucatan 65 million years ago. Sunlight's blocked out by atmospheric debris and sulfate aerosols. Photosynthesis comes to a screeching halt. Well, there's widespread disruption, anyway. So, plants die, animals die—goodbye, dinosaurs. Then, how does everything recover?"

Angela shrugged. "Pretty well, I guess. I mean, we're here, right?"

"Yeah, but listen. The ecosystem, its foundation species, recovered a lot faster than most people thought they would." Hodgins had come closer to the windows, in his excitement, and Bones had turned her chair, so that the four of them made a little circle near the corner of the kitchen.

"We're talking about an event that wiped out the _dinosaurs_," Hodgins said, "and yet, in the grand scheme of things, it barely put a dent in algae communities. At least, in this one location," he added. "It wasn't a global study."

"I'm sorry," Booth tried not to yawn, "but we should care about this why?"

Hodgins paused, glancing at Brennan as if he couldn't believe Booth didn't get it. Bones, herself, wore the same patient frown she always did, when Booth asked stupid questions.

"Dude, we should care because… Okay, say if world war three comes along, or another asteroid—because that's pretty much inevitable—or we finally just screw up the climate so badly that…" He flung one hand toward the grass and trees outside the window. "It becomes like a nuclear winter out there. Still, this study shows, it's possible that primary photosynthesis production might not be interrupted for more than one or two hundred years. I don't know about humans, how many of us could survive, but this does mean the plants can recover relatively quickly, and then some animals that feed on them, and…"

"So," Angela said, "we might wipe ourselves out, or reduce our population to a fraction of what it was, but overall, we can't really destroy nature?"

"Basically," Hodgins said. "Yeah." He touched Angela's sleeve. "It'll be like the Garden of Eden. Paradise after the apocalypse."

Then he turned to Booth and clapped him on the back. "So… if you were the only man on Earth, who would you want to be your woman?" Hodgins looked, with a completely unsubtle glance, at Brennan.

Booth glanced at her too, and found her looking intrigued. But more like an anthropologist eager for the next installment of human behavior, rather than a woman to be flirted with.

Angela, meanwhile, had crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow, letting Booth know that if he didn't produce the correct response, she would kick his ass. But whether that response was to smile and say, "Bones, of course," or to take issue with the "your woman" comment, Booth couldn't be sure.

"For both of our safeties," he told Hodgins, "I am not going to answer that."

He noticed that the bug guy—and Bones—looked a little disappointed. "Why don't you go get me some more water," he said to Hodgins, shoving the glass at him. "Do something that won't get you into trouble."

Hodgins just grinned, and took the glass with good humor.

-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Brennan hasn't gotten to discuss _her _squinty article yet! *Rubs hands together in anticipation.* Stay tuned for more from your anthropology nerd. And, oh yeah, probably some character interaction too.

I have to say, all this repressed emotion on the new season of the show has me going _nuts, _and creating fantasies of extreme drama. I wonder if I can top the angst in this story… I'm thinking kidnappings, gunshot wounds, blood, sweat and tears. Who wants to see me write something like that, after this one is finished?


	87. Chapter 87

**A/N:** A few of you said you were looking forward to Brennan's geeky science bit. (Yay!) Her squinty articles come from the same volume of _Science_ that I referenced last chapter: vol. 326, 2 Oct. 2009. One is called "Careful Climbing in the Miocene: The Forelimbs of _Ardipithecus ramidus _and Humans Are Primitive," by Lovejoy, Simpson et al. And the other is "Combining Prehension and Propulsion: The Foot of _Ardipithecus ramidus_," by Lovejoy, Latimer et al.

**Part 87 **

Once Hodgins seemed to have exhausted both his scientific speeches and his teasing remarks, he and Angela brought out some food to munch on. They put a bowl of nuts on the counter, along with a plate of vegetables and dip.

Booth leaned his hands on the kitchen island they had all gathered around. He stood next to Bones, while the other two sat on stools on her other side.

Although she had taken genuine interest in Hodgins' article, it seemed she had been patiently waiting her turn to talk anthropology. "I'm glad you mentioned this issue," she was saying, "because it was mainly dedicated to _Ardipithecus ramidus_, the 4.4 million year old hominid—"

Booth took a handful of nuts and interrupted, "Ardi what?"

Her mouth made a cute, reluctant sort of twist. "Well, 'Ardi' _is _the nickname applied to one set of remains, that was found in exposed sediment along the Awash River in Ethiopia, but the proper species name is _Ardipithecus ramidus._ It was first described in 1994 from teeth and jaw fragments, but we now have at least thirty-six individuals, including the well-known female who's been nicknamed Ardi."

Angela asked about the size of the creature, and Brennan began, "She would have weighed about fifty kilograms and stood—"

"Bo-ones," Booth whined. "Metric moron here, remember?"

"Oh, about 110 pounds. And 120 centimeters in height…"

"Forty seven inches," Hodgins put in.

"Just under four feet tall."

"Well." Angela put both hands on her hips. "It's kind of nice to feel like a very tall and lean female primate, in comparison."

Before Bones could respond, Hodgins smirked at Angela, picking up a carrot stick and raising it toward her lips. "Are you _my _female primate?"

"Mm." She leaned forward to take the food in her teeth. "Sounds kinda dirty."

Rather than telling them to get a room, Booth grabbed a carrot stick too, and turned to Bones. She smiled a little, watching Hodgins and Angela. And now she didn't disappoint: commenting on the anthropological significance.

"The practice of adults feeding each other occurs across many species. It helps cement the pair bond and shows the female that the male is a good provider and will make a dependable father for their offspring."

Booth couldn't resist. He lifted the carrot closer to her, with a suggestive raise of the eyebrows. And—no, he wasn't imagining it: she actually blushed.

But she got herself back on track by responding to Angela's last comment. "On average," Bones said, "humans are among the largest of female primates. At least in terms of height; most female gorillas tend to be heavier."

"So, I'm right to feel big and powerful." Angela grinned.

Bones was now saying that she had been in touch with some authors of these squinty articles, "but I was pleased to see the final versions, in the expanded journal section dedicated to this remarkable find."

Delving into the discoveries, she was getting every bit as excited as Hodgins had been, not even glancing at the array of crunchy vegetables in front of her (that she would normally have been gnawing on, while reminding Booth he should eat more of them).

"We've always assumed that the last common ancestor of humans and African apes would be similar to a chimpanzee—our closest genetic relative. But _Ardipithecus ramidus_ does away with all those assumptions. It shows us that both humans and living apes are highly specialized. Although in our case, perhaps not as specialized as we'd like to think.

"For instance, discoveries about the hominid's foot are emblematic of its overall significance. We had thought that the human foot evolved from one similar to African apes, but that is very improbable, because Ardi has a foot unlike either species."

Booth didn't bother to tease her for using the species' nickname she had frowned on, because he was too busy admiring how she looked right now. Bones shifted her weight while she lectured, her legs bare under a nice-fitting brown skirt. She wore a blue-green t-shirt, with a light-colored jacket. (Sort of white, Booth would have called it, but maybe Angela would say _ecru _or _stone_.)

"The foot was similar to ours, in that it was more rigid than an ape's foot. That makes it a better lever for upright walking. _But…_" her eyes sparkled with how fascinating this was, "it also had an opposable big toe, something that no later hominid possessed. That combination of traits made for an unusual mosaic, with adaptations for walking _and _for grasping or climbing."

"Bones, this is all great." Booth decided to tease her after all. "But really, you're a genius, so please try to _grasp _the concept: Weekend. Not in the lab. Not talking about work."

She gave him her mildly dismissive frown. "We're not talking about work. Work is mainly crime solving, while this is for fun. And for staying up to date in our fields."

"It's no use." Angela gave Booth a wistful look. "It's like trying to describe the moon to a mole."

"Hey!" Hodgins nudged her with his elbow. "They say 'publish or perish,' but it's also '_read _publications or perish.' Besides, _this _mole already knows what the moon looks like, thank you very much."

Brennan watched the exchange, then went on, unfazed. "A key thing to remember is that _Ardipithecus_, as a model for our last common ancestor with the chimpanzee, retained a rather unspecialized foot. If it _hadn't_, it's possible that our human characteristic of upright walking might never have evolved in the first place."

"Whoa," Hodgins said. "So what would we be doing? Swinging from the trees?"

"Scampering along branches?" Angela suggested.

"Knuckle walking?" Booth grinned.

"No, in fact—" That started Bones on a new idea. "The hand and wrist of this hominid show that it did _not _engage in knuckle walking as a means of locomotion. That is something only African apes do, and their hands show several specific adaptations for it. Adaptations that we lack. They have longer palms and fingers…" Brennan gestured at her own palm, "…that let them support much of their body mass, for instance when climbing trees; and they also have stiff metacarpal-phalangeal joints.

"In comparison, our hands, and those of _Ardipithecus_, look rather primitive and unspecialized. We both have more flexible wrists than apes do, and actually, the midcarpal joint in _Ardipithecus _was even more mobile than ours. Features of the hamate and capitate…"

Booth let his mind wander at that point, but it was out of contentment, rather than irritation. He enjoyed Brennan's voice, without having to absorb all the facts. He looked around Hodgins' spacious kitchen. At the shadows growing long on the grass outside the window. At the three people sitting in a row next to him.

He hadn't minded missing the first event Hodgins had had here, with the larger group. Cam and Zack had been there that time. Cam, with her uncanny ability to ask him things he didn't want to be asked. And Zack… Deep down, Booth liked the kid, but it was hard to relax around someone who could be so robotic.

But now, this smaller gathering… Booth had been a little suspicious at first, about the motives behind Angela's invitation. But whether this was a double date, or a celebration of Anders' trial ending and the two of them—all of them—resuming their work together… Booth didn't care. He was just glad to be here.

Because, you had to love Angela, and Hodgins… Hell, he'd already bonded with the guy, over beer and James Bond movies.

Then there was Bones, of course.

She was standing in the middle of her listeners, like they were a tiny lecture hall of students. But she had also realized none of them were Zack, and so hadn't gone into exhaustive detail about those wrist bones.

"These fossils," she concluded, "show that our ability to make and use tools did not require us to greatly modify our hands."

Hodgins looked thoughtful. "I guess we should be a little less ego-centric, deciding that hunting and tool-making were so instrumental in our development, and in setting ourselves apart from the animals… when it turns out, our hands were basically already like this, even before our brains had caught up to tool-making standards."

"Yes," Bones said, "it's actually apes whose hands have adapted so extensively since we shared our last common ancestor. We made the age-old mistake of assuming that our species is the most highly evolved, and that others, like the chimpanzee, must be primitive in comparison."

Booth reached over to scoop some celery through the dipping sauce. "We're not highly evolved?"

"Well, it would be fair to say that we are, but so are many other species." Bones touched his arm, with his handful of veggies, as if to make sure he was listening, and not distracted by snacking. "What we've realized, with this find, is that chimpanzees have specialized greatly, and so make poor models for that ancient ancestor, and for understanding unique human traits like bipedal walking."

"Uh-huh," Booth said. Bones probably knew that he didn't see the same intrigue that she did, but as he looked into her eyes, he couldn't help smiling—the way he did any time she got lost in her passionate scholar mode.

"Well," he said, "what do you say we take all of our not-so-highly-evolved feet, and go on that tour of this mansion. Okay, Hodgins?"

The bug guy gave a snort of laughter and agreed. As Angela stood up, he threw an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, you big, powerful lady primate."

"Hey," she countered, "Don't get carried away. Just because I'm a little taller than you…" They led the way out of the kitchen.

Booth decided to take a chance by copying Hodgins' motion. He hooked a casual arm around the back of Brennan's neck. "I feel like I should say, 'Me Tarzan, you Jane.'"

Bones gave him her _I don't know what that means _expression. His move had brought her shoulder and hip snugly against his. She didn't try to duck out from under his arm, but her eyebrows lifted, and she wouldn't let it go without comment.

"Don't you mean _Tony_? With these unsolicited gestures of affection and possessiveness?"

He gave her his slowest, most irresistible smile. "You can solicit me any time you want. _Roxy_."

She smacked him on the back as they followed their friends out of the room.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Up next: Brennan might just take him at his word.


	88. Chapter 88

**A/N: **I have been planning the pond scene (in this chapter and the next) for some time. Let's hope I can pull it off.

FYI, events mentioned here, Brennan's dream and B/B banter, occur in Ch. 30.

**Part 88**

Hodgins took his friends on a tour of the house and grounds. They spent some time in the library, where Booth had shown interest in the knife collection Hodgins had inherited from his uncle. While the two of them leaned over the glass-topped case, Angela tapped her foot with mock impatience. She glanced at Brennan and rolled her eyes. "_Boys_."

Now, after strolling around the outdoor property, they stopped at the edge of the pond. A gravel path sloped gently down to the water, under a spreading willow tree.

Angela waved her hand in the direction of Zack's apartment, but said, "He's probably not at home. He's either at the lab, or… on date."

Booth scoffed, but Hodgins said, "What, you haven't heard about Naomi from Paleontology?"

"_Please _don't talk to me about Zack's sex life. Or lack thereof." Booth bent to pick up a pebble, and chucked it into the pond.

Hodgins glanced at his watch and said to Angela, "We should get dinner started."

"We'll help," Brennan offered, but they brushed her off.

"No, it's just putting some spinach lasagna in the oven and tossing the salad. You two stay here," Angela said, "and enjoy yourselves. I'll come get you when it's ready."

When they'd left, Brennan went to stand by her partner at the edge of the water. A breeze created ripples that lapped softly at the bank. The last few days had felt very spring-like, and they were both comfortable wearing light-weight jackets. Shadows stretched green and gold across the grass, and the air retained the warmth of the sun, which was dropping behind the trees at the edge of the property.

Brennan watched Booth throw another pebble. It carved a perfect arc before plopping into the water.

"Do you know how to skip rocks?" she asked. "Hodgins showed all of us, the last time we were here."

Booth gave a short laugh. "You know, I should, but I can't remember the last…" He trailed off, and she wasn't sure he was going to continue. "No, my grandfather showed me. And Jared, I think. We were at some lake, camping or spending the day. I must not have been very old, because..." He gazed across the pond, looking grave. Then he turned to Brennan and grinned. "It was definitely fun. All of it, not just skipping rocks. But it's not like I had the opportunity to do that very often."

Brennan hesitated. "Have fun, or skip rocks?"

His shoulders tensed a little. "Both."

"Well," she said, "it _is_ a pointless activity, and unless you live in a region with an abundance of ponds, and properly shaped pebbles…"

He was chuckling, now, listening to her. She shook her head, then bent to pick up a few stones. She offered him one, and he raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was a pointless activity."

"Maybe I should have said unproductive, not pointless. Any recreational activity will confer benefits to a person's subjective well-being, even if there's no objective value."

He took the pebble from her, and looked ready to toss it right away, but she decided to re-create the lesson Hodgins and Angela had given her. Beginning with a description of the ideal rock shape.

Booth listened for a moment, then said, "Angela really pays that much attention to the aesthetic properties of pebbles?"

Brennan shrugged. "I think she pays attention to the aesthetic properties of everything. But she could have been exaggerating.

"Now, the hand position and throwing motion…" She stood parallel to the water and demonstrated: flicking her wrist and skipping her rock twice on the pond's surface.

"Not too shabby, Bones."

She smiled. "Here, I'll show you how Angela showed me."

Moving behind him on the gravel bank, she stood close, molding her right arm along the back of his, and cupping his hand in hers. The angle was not quite right; she would have to get a little closer for the throwing part.

Booth seemed to have gone very still, his head turned toward her, but looking down at their hands wrapped around the rock. The shoulders of his leather jacket seemed very broad, this close up, nearly blocking her view of the water. Brennan inched one foot forward, almost between his, and shifted closer, so that her chest brushed his back, and her hips pressed lightly into his glute muscles.

Keeping her hand draped over the back of his, she started to demonstrate the wrist motion. But he wasn't relaxed; his arm resisted her a little.

"Uh, Bones…" Booth looked over his shoulder, sounding amused, perhaps uncomfortable. "It's okay, I think I can manage without the hands-on demonstration."

He moved a step forward, dropping his hand, and she took a step back, not sure what to think about his gentle rejection. But she settled for a logical evaluation.

"You do have excellent hand-eye coordination, so this shouldn't be difficult to learn."

He smiled crookedly at the compliment, then proceeded to prove her right. After some initial tosses, he was skipping rocks nearly as well as Hodgins had on that first visit.

Brennan stood at his side again, and they took turns casting pebbles, watching the circular ripples collide, ruining their symmetry.

They didn't talk much, and Brennan found that she wasn't thinking about anything in particular. But after she had touched Booth's arm, she had an odd sense of… not of déjà vu exactly; it was more vague than that. There was something familiar about Booth, and this setting, that nagged at the edge of her consciousness.

She remembered being frustrated, the first time, when her rocks sank rather than skipping. Now, she wasn't trying as hard, and was performing better.

"Bo-ones!" Booth laughed. "Look at that! You got _four _times. That's gotta be a record, right?"

She watched the series of ripples melt back into the pond, smiling at his reaction. "I don't think so. But maybe I should quit while I'm ahead."

"Okay…" He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "But I'm going to have to try to beat that, now. Or at least match it."

She returned his challenging grin. "If you decide you need another lesson, just let me know."

His eyes looked fierce, but laughing. "Don't tempt me."

Brennan took a few steps back, to the grass under the willow tree, and watched Booth search for more pebbles. The gravel crunched and shifted under his feet. Sunlight beaming low through the trees mottled his jacket with light and dark patches.

Hodgins was fortunate, Brennan reflected, to have this estate. It was certainly a pleasant place to spend an afternoon.

Booth made a poor toss, and groaned in disappointment. But he was very enjoyable to watch. And obviously talented in sports: the way he twisted his hips and shoulders when he threw, to optimize the stone's trajectory.

Over Brennan's head, wind whispered through the willow branches, and sparrows flitted to and fro. She glanced at the pond: brown reeds grew along the shore, remnants of last season. But the well-tended grass was as lush as it would have been in summer.

And then Brennan realized what her brain hadn't been able to access. It was a dream she'd had months ago, and all but forgotten. She had dreamed about Booth. There'd been grass like this... She had dreamed about them together, in a peaceful spot under a tree.

But it hadn't started out that way. Anders and Rawling had been there, first. They threatened us, she thought, in Booth's apartment. But we had guns and fired at them. Just like that—justice and vengeance satisfied in two easy shots.

She and Booth had run outside together, ending up on a grassy slope under rustling trees. It had been dark and tranquil, and very far away from anything else.

She had kissed Booth. Kissed him under the tree, and pulled him down on top of her on the soft, fragrant grass. Dragged at his clothing, wanting to feel his bare skin. She'd squeezed her thighs around him, and he'd growled in her ear. He'd bent his head and called her _Temperance_. Said, _I'll never leave you_.

She'd woken up in a sort of panic, feeling flushed and frenzied. Near tears, in fact, at the emotional tug, the unexpected fervor.

This dream had occurred after they'd visited a crime scene: the muddy drainage ditch where Serge's remains had been found. Booth had driven her home, and they'd bantered in the car. She couldn't even remember what it was about, now. Except that she'd felt chilled from her wet clothes, and warm from the heating vents. Comfortable and off balance, when they teased each other.

Now the last rays of sun had disappeared behind the trees, but the air glowed with indirect light. The pond reflected a peach and blue sky, disrupted by ripples from the rocks Booth was lazily skipping.

She'd invited him in that night, for dinner or a drink, but he'd declined. And then, before she'd gotten out of the car, something had happened in his eyes. Something on his face as he'd looked at her, that was dark and sweet and frightening. She couldn't identify what it was, now. But—if the dream she'd had was any indication—her body could.

_Maybe I should just call up a previous sex partner_, Brennan had told Angela on their run that morning. But she also remembered what she'd thought, after that dream of Booth under the trees. She'd stood by her window, looking at the city lights washing out the stars, and decided that when she felt ready to resume sexual activity, it would have to be with someone exceptional. Someone respectful, considerate. Someone she trusted and felt safe with.

Booth was all of those things.

Brennan took an audible breath. It was a near-perfect syllogism. She couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to her before now. There were just one or two complications…

"Ha ha, you see? Four times, Bones. Well, maybe three and a half." Booth turned from the ripples on the water, to share his victory.

Brennan opened her mouth to respond, but no words emerged. She found herself admiring him again, instead. The way his hair was ruffled like he'd run his hands through it. The way the leather jacket emphasized his strong, square shoulders. The blue jeans riding low on his hips.

"Bones?"

Something had given her away. He was intrigued, now.

She started to walk forward, out from under the tree, but Booth was coming to her. He ducked under a trailing willow branch, eyes intense with curiosity.

"I was just thinking…"

He smiled, his voice dropping lower than usual. "I know you were. And I want to know what it was about."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Do you love me or hate me right now? I intended to give you the whole scene, but I want to get it right, and need time for a beta read. After all, I have been good, throughout the story, about not tantalizing you with a lot of cliffhangers.


	89. Chapter 89

**A/N: **Toward the end, Brennan recalls a scene that happened in Ch. 46.

Section breaks this time denote change in POV rather than change in scene.

We see it on the show, but my fellow writers must have wondered… how do you *write* eyesex? I don't have a short answer to that, but I do have this. A quote from Jennifer Ackerman's _Sex Sleep Eat Drink Dream—A Day in the Life of Your Body_:

The Tierra del Fuegans have an expression, _mamihlapinatapei_, which is listed in the _Guinness Book of World Records_ as the world's most succinct word. It refers to the act of "looking into each other's eyes, each hoping that the other will initiate what both want to do but neither chooses to commence."

Well, B/B, let it commence.

**Part 89**

Bones hadn't been paying attention to his rock skipping prowess. When Booth turned, her eyes had focused on him with a startled look, and he realized he'd caught her deep in thought. But _what _she'd been thinking about…

He tried to decode that expression as he walked toward her. It wasn't quite like anything he'd seen before. The way her lips parted and her eyes roamed slowly over him… It was thrill, or fear, or eagerness. She was assessing him in some new light. He would even say she was checking him out, except that Bones didn't do that.

He stood with her now, under the tree. She pressed her lips together in this unconscious, tantalizing way, before answering. Or rather, evading his question.

"I was just thinking... how nice it is here. Hodgins has used his money wisely."

"Oh no," Booth told her. "You can't look at me the way you just did, and then say it was merely about the scenery."

"But…" She was flustered now. "I haven't had a chance to think it over."

"Well, maybe I could help you with that."

"It's more about logic," she warned, "whereas you prefer things to be about emotion."

"Okay... That's nothing new, right?"

Still she hesitated. "It's two things, really. But I don't know if you're going to like them."

Booth couldn't help recalling other conversations that began, 'You're not going to like it.' Those had been about halting their partnership because of hostage-experience stress, or about Brennan feeling she let the criminals isolate her to play their cruel games.

Now, she seemed anxious, but not seriously troubled. So he kept coaxing. "Come on… We're partners. How bad could it be?"

"All right." She took a breath. "It's… a sort of favor to ask."

Booth waited, watching her. Now that the sun had gone down, a diffuse golden light tinged her jacket, while the snug blue t-shirt brought out her eyes.

"Sometime in the future," she said carefully, "when I'm ready, would you be willing to have sex? Because I like and respect you, and there's a mutual trust between us, which I think would be beneficial to me."

Booth stared, completely speechless.

"I mean," she corrected, "being with someone like that would be beneficial. Someone like you… Actually, you."

Would I, Booth thought, would I be _willing_?

He wasn't sure what combination showed on his face—of shock, or joy—but it must've been more shock, because her eyes clouded and she started to backpedal.

"I knew you wouldn't like it. I'm sorry. It's inappropriate, I shouldn't have—"

"No, don't take it back."

His vehemence startled both of them, and they shared a nervous smile.

"I—you just caught me off guard, that's all." Booth glanced across the pond and let out his breath. "I mean, you can't drop a bombshell like that and think I'll have a rational response."

"That qualifies as a bombshell?"

"Hell, yeah."

"So…" She looked at him almost shyly. "Was that a yes?"

"It was…" Booth swallowed, collecting his thoughts. "I'm honored. Okay, first of all, I know that's a really big thing to ask someone. And… I'm glad it's me."

She picked me, Booth thought. _She picked me._

Yeah, he was honored—and scared shitless, too. This was like a teenage fantasy come true. On the other hand, it was a huge responsibility.

She was looking at him with her head tilted. "I sense a _however_."

"Bones, if we do that… If we sleep together…" He couldn't help the silly grin spreading over his face, but he needed to make this point. "It would have to be for a _real _reason. Not that I'm doing you a favor, as a friend or whatever. And not to… wash an unpleasant taste out of your mouth. I mean, it would have to be about _us_. Okay? You and me. Together."

Now her eyes looked a little round with fear, though not surprise. "I told you," she grumbled, "it was more about logic than emotion."

He frowned. "How's that, exactly?"

She launched into an explanation of the reasoning behind her choice, ticking off the points that made him an ideal candidate. Then, without waiting for his response, she said, "I have noticed signs of attraction on occasion, in myself as well as you. Physiological markers like pupil dilation, unconscious pitch of the voice…"

She stopped, presumably at his expression. Because he didn't know whether to feel like a lab rat, or a stud.

"If there's something in that assessment you find inaccurate…?"

He could have laughed. "No, Bones, I think that… is a very accurate assessment." But part of him needed to ask, to get a reaction out of her, or make sure he wasn't hallucinating. "So, to be clear…" He took a step closer. "Did you just say that we're attracted to each other?"

"Yes, I believe that has been clear, virtually since we first met." Her words might have been cool, but her cheeks were pink. "We just never…"

"Never acknowledge it?"

She nodded."And besides, I know you were joking earlier, but you _did _say I could solicit you. While role-playing as Roxy, at least; I'm not sure how much of it was real."

"Oh, it was real, Bones."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

His smile was downright predatory. Brennan realized she had swayed closer to him. But then she blinked and straightened, keeping some distance between them.

The other aspect of the dream had just occurred to her. She had not misinterpreted the physical signs, between her and Booth. But she could very well have misinterpreted the emotional ones. She'd made a habit of doing so over the years. Misreading interpersonal cues, whether with colleagues, family, old boyfriends, or suspects.

"You said there were two things…" Booth looked concerned, having instantly noticed her change in demeanor.

"Are you putting your life on hold?" she blurted. "Because of Anders and Rawling keeping us hostage? Because of the trial or—because of me?"

"What? Bones…" He shook his head in confusion.

I didn't need to ask, Brennan told herself. Booth is _here_, after all. He's enjoying himself. He does share an emotional connection with me, with Hodgins and Angela, Cam and Zack. But is he only here out of loyalty? Does he need something else—something more?

"You've had to miss time with Parker," she pointed out. "Because of what we went through, you had to miss a lot of free time when you could have been… going to sporting events, or dating, or out for drinks with your FBI buddies."

"No, that's not…" Booth didn't seem to know what to respond to first. "I don't really have FBI buddies. Maybe there's a couple guys I'll get a beer with, but… Where's this coming from, Bones? It's not like you to be so…"

She grimaced wryly. "Insecure?"

"Hey," he said, "I am not putting anything on hold. _This _is life, Bones." He flung one arm toward the pond, his mouth curving into a slow smile that she knew was genuine. "Skipping rocks with you at Hodgins' mansion, going in to eat a big plate of lasagna—even if it is spinach—then putting on some nice classic rock and drinking beer with friends... That's _it_, Bones. And, yes, spending time with Parker tomorrow. That's what it's all about."

She smiled too, a little embarrassed by her need for reassurance. "Okay. I suppose I wanted to make sure you weren't… looking for something more traditional."

"More traditional than…" His eyes crinkled with laughter. "Than getting a touchy-feely lesson on tossing rocks, and then being propositioned by my partner, who calls it a logical conclusion?"

"Well…" She found his grin contagious. "Yes."

"Nah—traditional is boring. Right?" When she nodded agreement, he said, "Okay, Bones. I think we're on the same page, here. The question is, what are you going to do with me?"

"You never actually said yes. To my... proposition."

"All right." Booth wasn't laughing any more. He took a step forward under the willow branches, letting his greater height overshadow her. "Yes, Bones. Yes."

Her lungs seemed to require more oxygen. And she couldn't stop studying his face. The strong line of his mandible. His symmetrical brow and cheekbone. His lips.

"But…" Booth drew back a little, reining in some of the undercurrents that held her. "_You _never said if… You always tell me, it's just sex. But there's nothing _just _about it. Maybe it's like scratching an itch to you…"

She wrinkled her nose. "That's not entirely accurate. Part of it, yes. It's also recreational. Fun. Or it was, until…" The name _Anders _hung between them, but she had already resolved to prevail over that memory. "It's about… giving and receiving pleasure."

"Yeah..." Booth's eyes were as dark as she'd ever seen them. "But it's also… giving and receiving love.

"So, I gotta ask, Bones. What would this mean? We would just sleep together once, and then… back to business as usual?"

"I don't know if I meant just once, but…"

His brows lifted, as though he would brag about his sexual proficiency. "Booth, don't—let's not analyze it."

Now he showed exaggerated disbelief. "Bones? _Not analyze_?"

"I mean—can't we work that out later? I told you, I only just thought of this, and I didn't have time to think it through logically."

"See, now that's the other thing." He stepped closer again. Brennan was so focused on him, she barely noticed how the sunset's afterglow had faded, and it would be dusk, soon.

"You can dress it up in a logical lab coat if you want. But what you said, about why you chose me—someone you trust, and feel safe with…"

Hearing Booth echo her words, while locking eyes with her… It was so intimate, she almost looked away.

"That's not logic, Bones. That's heart." He dared to touch her, then. His hand came up, as if to tap her on the chest. Slowly, his fingertips settled on her, just at the opening of her shirt. They pressed lightly near the top of her sternum, barely brushing the swell of her breasts.

Brennan wanted to argue, to refute his claims. But her breathing felt strange, and for once, no ideas came. She bit her lip in frustration, even as she had to admit, some part of what he'd said was true.

He seemed to read her conflicted feelings, but when she didn't object, he went on in that rough, low voice.

"Not just the physical stuff, Bones. As fun as that is. But _heart_. That's what I want." He dropped his hand, with an oddly boyish smile. "Okay? Your sweet, surprising, generous, metaphoric heart."

"Booth…" She wanted to tell him something about his heart, too. "Mine is not generous, in comparison to yours. And I don't… Thank you. I don't know what to say." But she reached out, to touch the sleeve of his leather jacket. She let her fingers slide down to find his wrist.

"If we do this… you know, eventually…" He kept still, letting her hand explore. "We have to do it my way. I don't mean—I'm a gentleman, so if you tell me to do or not do something, or go at a certain speed, I will. But I can't… It's not just biology to me, you know that. It's about… Us. Two people. Together."

"You said that before," Brennan pointed out. But she was stroking his wrist with her fingers, over the firm end of the ulna, and down his hand, feeling the metacarpals under his skin.

"I want to make sure you get it, Bones." Now he rotated his wrist, fingers catching hers. Their hands clasped, and she shivered.

"I need to know," he said softly. "Do you understand?"

Brennan felt her heart rate accelerating. Or perhaps it wasn't the speed she noticed, but the strength. That vital muscle thumping in her chest, impelling her to answer him.

She suddenly recalled sitting in the backseat of his car, while he bandaged her elbow. She'd said, _I could get used to someone taking care of me. _Someone like Booth. Because, throughout that long process, their ordeal in the suite and afterward, they'd depended on each other. So much that it overwhelmed her. But not Booth. He'd never seen it as a problem. _That's what people do, Bones._

Now he looked at her with quiet intensity. The pond behind him had darkened with the sky, and the air was growing cooler. But their joined hands were very warm.

In the car that day he'd said, _I am your friend, Temperance. Even if we're not working together, if we're not partners… I'll be here._

He had made a promise very like the one from her dream. But she couldn't accept it at the time. She couldn't reciprocate. _Not yet_.

Now…

"Somewhere down the road," Booth said, "can you do that? Will you let it be about… us?"

"I think…" Her voice cracked, but she held his hand, to steady it. "Maybe… Yes."

-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **This might have been a place to end the entire story, but in fact the scene is not over. I honestly never intended to go in this direction. (And we will not see smut in this story.) What I intended was a thorough exploration of angst, and I've done that. But really, can we help it—I mean Brennan and me—if _this _is the logical conclusion?


	90. Chapter 90

**Part 90**

Booth and Brennan stood together under the tree, by the side of the pond. Willow branches hung low around them, like the shelter of a giant umbrella. They were still holding hands.

After the gravity of a moment ago, Booth watched Bones start to smile. It was tentative and full of fear. But she'd told him _yes_. They both had: what she'd asked of him, and what he'd asked in return—they'd both said yes.

His own mouth curved mischievously. "So, just for the record, you're admitting that I won that argument?"

She let go of his hand so she could hit him on the arm. "That was not an argument!"

"Ouch, Bones! Are you trying to hurt me? Unless you _want _to play rough, the first time out…"

She pretended to be shocked, but he saw the answering glint in her eyes. Being Bones, however, she returned to more serious reflection. "I admit you had a point. I did say, I craved a level of trust with a sexual partner. If we sleep together…" It sounded like she was test driving the words. "It wouldn't be about biology. It would be… the two of us. Trust, and pleasure. Satisfaction, and…"

Booth was standing very close to her again, without knowing how he'd gotten there.

She hesitated for a long time, but when she went on, it was sincere and without bitterness.

"Healing."

He had to touch her, again. He put his hand gently along the side of her face. His thumb caressed her cheek, one finger brushing her earlobe, the others touching the soft skin of her neck, and threading into her hair.

She blinked, and turned her head a little, in a way that encouraged him to slide his fingers further along her throat. But then her hand came up to rest on his chest, over his heart, and her eyes were flickering to his mouth, and he thought he'd better break things off here, because if he didn't…

Bones might still want to run, in the back of her mind. He could see the little tongues of doubt pricking around the edges. Not, he thought, from physical closeness… But that part was easier to address.

"Don't worry." Booth smiled. "I'm not going to kiss you."

He started to lower his hand from her face, but she grabbed it and kept it right where it was. Now she looked exactly like the woman he had first met. The feisty, fearless one, who punched senators and swigged tequila like a pro.

"That's too bad," she said. "Because I was going to kiss you."

And she did. She took the front of his jacket in both hands, pulling him close. She rose up on her toes, and as her lips neared his, he was too stunned to do anything except close his eyes.

Despite her take-charge attitude, the kiss was surprisingly tender. Just the press of her lips against his, unhurried and soft. After a moment she paused, and his eyes fluttered open, so he could see as well as feel her: heady, warm and close. She tilted her head, her lips more questing, and he responded with a trace of aggression, his fingers digging deep into the thick hair behind her ear. He heard her inhale, and then sigh against him, her hot breath on his face, and in another second she would lean further into him, twining her arms around his neck, and there would be tongue action, and he would pull her hips tightly against his—

Footsteps crunched on gravel, then stopped when someone gasped. "Oh my God—" Angela had just come into view around the willow tree.

Booth and Brennan broke apart, breathing unsteadily. They'd been hidden by the broad tree trunk, and Angela hadn't seen what she was interrupting until it was too late.

Now she had her hand over her mouth. "I—sorry!" Dismay and elation were warring on her face, and she held both hands up in front of her. "I was going to tell you dinner's ready, but—forget it, okay? Just—keep doing what you're doing. I was never here." She turned and tried to tiptoe away over the gravel path.

Booth realized he and Bones were still holding onto each other's arms. They looked at each other, flushed like two teenagers caught necking in a parked car, and they started to laugh.

-.-.-.-.-.

Angela burst into the kitchen, where Hodgins had just removed the tray of lasagna from the oven. He put it on the counter, peeling back the foil and peering at the cheese topping. Presented with such a scene, Angela would normally have declared, "I love a man in oven mitts." But right now she was much too guilty and jubilant.

"Oh my God, oh my God!" She came over and grabbed Jack's arm. "Please tell me I was not just a cockblocker."

"_What_?" he laughed.

"I'm supposed to be Brennan's wingman! You know, like the enabler for Booth/Brennan sexy times, but here I am instead, acting like a—"

"What," Hodgins said, "were they doing out there?

He listened to her avid description of the tryst under a tree. "Knowing them," Angela speculated, "it was some big, intense emotional scene first, and then…"

"_Good _intense?"

Angela had seized the salad forks and was mixing layers of lettuce, paying almost no attention to what she was doing. "It has to be good! Right? They were kissing! _Some_thing is going on."

"You think they're finally sleeping together?"

"Nooo… Not yet. I'm not sure what to think. As long as no one's crying or running away… As long as they both come back looking happy, which they certainly did when I so clumsily interrupted them…"

"So, you want to do something to help things along?" Angela knew not to take him too seriously, by the way he was grinning. "Maybe set them up with some soft core porn to watch downstairs, and hint about the strategically placed condoms in various parts of the house?"

She waved one hand dismissively. "Brennan already knows about those."

"How does she—? Just what kind of girl talk do you two _do_?" Angela started to smile her devilish grin and he said, "On second thought—don't tell me."

Now she craned her neck to see out a window. "Just act normal when they come back, okay?"

"Right…" he drawled. "Like _you _will?"

She ignored that, still absorbed by her thoughts. "They might not actually need any help from us. Because, when we were in here earlier, and walking around the yard…" She took a step closer to him, speaking in a low voice as if someone could overhear their gossip. "Did you _see _the way they were looking at each other? I'm not even sure they were aware of it yet. But they've reached a new level of hotness! I mean, they always look at each other, but that's just generalized erotic sweetness. This… this is with _intent_. And it was hot."

"Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"I'm not saying I wouldn't pay good money to see the two of them… But don't worry, babe." She put one hand on top of his head to caress his curly hair. "Our secret-corner-of-the-lab security tapes are all the hotness I need."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Booth and Brennan did not, in fact, carry on what they were doing. They started walking at a leisurely pace, back through the grounds to the house. It was dusk now, the eastern sky approaching indigo, and the green grass fading into shades of gray.

Bones was still reflecting on what they'd said. "This attraction, that we haven't acknowledged until now…"

"Yeah?" Booth tried not to sound too cocky about it.

"Is that what you were doing earlier—not acknowledging it—when I tried to show you the proper rock skipping technique?"

They walked under an untrimmed tree, and Booth reached up to keep a branch from slapping them in the face. "Avoiding it, yeah. It was just unexpected, Bones. Awkward. I mean, I was supposed to be thinking about tossing rocks, and not…"

"Getting your rocks off?"

She looked so impishly pleased with herself, it made him want to kiss the smile from her lips. "Okay, how do you even know that?"

"Angela," she said simply. "Hodgins."

They crested a small hill, and the house came into view, its rectangular windows glowing with light.

"I guess I was asking for that one. But you know what I think, Bones? You were just looking for a reason to touch me. Weren't you? Can't keep your hands off me, is that it?"

"No, that is not it. I merely wanted to faithfully reproduce the lesson they showed me when…" She glanced at his smug, grinning face, and huffed with annoyance.

A moment later they were crossing the driveway, and she said, "I will get back at you for that. When you least expect it."

Booth thought her expression was part calculating scientist, and part roguish Roxy. It was a bit eerie, but undeniably exciting.

He reached the front door and pulled it open for her. "Oh, I'm looking forward to it."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **Up next, some pool playing. And probably, knowing Angela and Hodgins, some innuendo as well.


	91. Chapter 91

**A/N: **Thank you to Amilyn for a live-read via chat, earlier in the week.

**Part 91**

After dinner, the four of them went down to the basement rec room. They all put their drinks on an end table by the sofa, while Angela went to choose some CDs from the collection, and Hodgins started taking the cover off the pool table.

Booth leaned against the back of the couch with a lazy smile. "Beer, tunes, and pool. What more do you need?"

Angela grinned with approval behind him, where she was adjusting the volume on a slow classic rock beat.

"Oh…!" Brennan seemed to realize something, and waved her hand at the pool table. "Booth, you can't—you're a degenerate gambler, you should stay away from situations like this."

"_Former_ gambler, okay, Bones? Former. No, as long as we don't start wagering money or sexual favors, I'll be fine."

"Aw," Angela said, "you're taking all the fun out of it."

She herded them over to the table to play a couple games. Brennan had picked up the skills faster than she could, but they laughed together over their mistakes. Booth and Hodgins made up for it with a real competition. Still, it was Booth who sank the final shot, winning the game.

Hodgins groaned, and Angela patted him on the arm. "It was really close, Jack. You had him on the run there for a while.

"Okay," she announced, "I want some practice here. Seriously, show me what I'm not getting about this." Jack shook off his disappointment and coached her through several shots, setting up the balls in different locations.

"Good, Angie," he said after some successful hits. "Now, bank shot."

Angela leaned over, cue stick poised, and narrowed her eyes. She had to calculate the correct angle, so the cue ball would bounce off the rail and hit the other ball into the pocket.

"No!" she wailed, when the cue ball struck too far to one side. She put her stick down in defeat, and instead picked up her wine glass from the table.

"It's okay, babe," Jack told her. "You're getting better."

Angela took a long sip, letting the red wine roll around on her tongue. "I'm drowning my sorrows anyway."

"Yes, this is wonderful." Brennan picked up her glass, too, and asked Booth, "You're sure you don't want any?"

He was across from the couch, fiddling with the CD player. "Nope. I'm happy with beer."

Hodgins was still at the table racking the balls, and started into an explanation of bank shots. "I've probably told you before—it's a combination of geometry and physics. The geometry is pretty straightforward, but it's the physics that presents the most variables. You know, how much the ball is spinning or sliding, and the friction, and how far it sinks into the rail.

"For instance, sometimes when we hit the object ball…" He placed the cue ball next to a red one, and moved them around as he talked. "…It seems to travel much straighter than it should based on the contact point. That's caused by the friction between the two balls, and the split-second transfer of force that makes it follow the direction the cue ball was traveling, so—"

"Please." Angela squinted, holding one hand up to her face. "Physics headache." Hodgins chuckled, and she went on, "I don't have a problem with any of those things _separately_. I mean, I totally understand it's part skill, luck, and intuition, to get the right balance of all that stuff. But all together, having to draw these lines and angles in my head, and _then _combine the physics of it? No, thanks. I just have to accept that I'm totally inept at this."

"No, that's not fair," Brennan put in. "You're not completely inept."

"Um, thanks, Sweetie. That's really comforting."

Bren had seated herself on the sofa, wine glass in hand. "I just mean that you have so many talents, so doing something like this, playing an unproductive game, is not really the best use of your time."

Angela smiled. "You mean, when I could be painting, or something?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Oh, because we know all about _unproductive _activities, right, Bones?" Booth dropped into a chair (whose back Angela was leaning on), so he sat at a right angle to Brennan. "In fact, this game would be as _pointless _as skipping rocks, if not for the enjoyment we get out of its recreational value. Right?"

Bren looked like she couldn't decide how to respond, but went with offended dignity. "It's one thing to listen and remember my observations, Booth, but quite another to mock them."

Angela expected them to keep sparring, but Booth simply smiled. The teasing melted away, and his smile was the sweetest, most full-of-promise one that Angela had ever seen.

"Baby, I'm not mocking you."

Angela's eyebrows shot up, and she couldn't help turning to Hodgins. He paused, by the pool table, his eyes bright with amusement. _Baby_? he mouthed.

Angela turned back to Booth, biting her lip to avoid squealing in delight. He and Bren were locked in this intense, everything-else-disappears kind of look. (It was enough to make Angela swoon, and she was only seeing it from the side, not full force.)

"I take everything you say seriously, Bones."

Angela was sure he was referring to something specific. And Brennan… A faint smile played around her mouth, somehow both shy and confident. She knew exactly what he meant.

"Possibly… more seriously than I do?"

Booth's eyes twinkled, but lost none of their power. "Possibly."

Angela wanted to jump up and down. Whatever had happened… that kiss by the pond, or something else… it had definitely upped the stakes between these two.

Finally Brennan glanced away, as if realizing she and Booth were not alone in the room.

Angela took advantage of her position behind Booth's chair. "Listen, Agent Studly…" She captured his shoulder under her hand. "You being a former pool hall hustler and all—let's see some trick shots. Come on, I know you have them."

He protested, but she insisted, and minutes later they had all gathered around the table again.

Of course, Jack knew a few tricks of his own, so they had to have another competition. Angela and Brennan stood to one side, letting the guys show off for them.

Angela just admired the view for a while: the two men silhouetted against the darkened glass of the sliding doors. Staring intently at the table, they would bend down to aim their shots, seeking the best angle and technique.

Angela leaned into Brennan's shoulder and said in a stage whisper, "They're trying to impress us females with their prowess."

"That's true. Males of many species have rituals aimed at doing just that. Birds, for instance, perform songs or dance-like movements; they display their plumage or wingspan..."

"Guys compare the size of their muscles. Or the size of their—"

"Okay, now!" Booth straightened up from the table.

"Yeah, let's not get carried away." Hodgins winked, but looked a bit worried under his cool exterior.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Angela said sweetly, "were we not talking as quietly as we thought, about your many notable attributes?"

Brennan, meanwhile, was not content to watch anymore. She picked up a cue stick, and asked the guys to teach her a few of the shots.

Booth began by showing her the jump shot, where you hopped the cue ball over one object ball, in order to hit another behind it.

"It's kind of illegal with public tables," Booth said. "You aim so low, the stick actually hits the table before the ball, so you could damage the felt."

"Yeah," Hodgins said, "but I do it every so often and my felt looks fine."

Angela smirked. "I so want to make a dirty joke right now."

Bren stood with Booth at one end of the table, while he explained the mechanics of the shot. The wall behind them was adorned with one of those neon beers signs that Hodgins had snagged from somewhere, and it cast a faint blue glow on their hair.

"There's actually a smaller, lighter 'jump cue,'" Booth was saying, "but these regular sticks will work."

"The other thing is," Jack said, "no breakable objects nearby, because until you get better at this shot, you can send balls flying off the table." He walked past Angela, so he could remove their drinks from the end table, just in case.

"Wait," she said, "how far away should I be standing?" Angela shifted closer to the wall, so that any stray shots would go past her and just hit the sofa or the back of the chair.

Plus, right here, she had an excellent profile view of Booth and Brennan.

Booth had three balls set up, the cue ball in a line with two others. "Don't worry about making the pocket just yet." He gestured at the last ball in the line. "Just try jumping the cue ball over the middle one."

He demonstrated a couple times: the sharp tap you delivered to the very base of the cue ball, making it hop into the air. Then he moved aside so Bren could try. She leaned over, bracing one hand low to guide the stick, with her right arm drawn back to propel the shot.

Angela had noticed how the glass doors leading onto the patio would mirror faint images. The pool table's green rectangle, orbs of light from the room's lamps, and ghostly images of her friends. Would I be able to paint those reflections, she wondered, if I did a piece called _Booth and Bren playing pool_?

Bren's first attempt was too light, and the ball only hopped a little, bumping the next one in line. Booth re-set them for her, but she overcompensated this time, the cue ball nearly leaping off the table.

"Whoa, easy there, Bones."

He retrieved the balls, and she wanted to know, "Am I hitting the right spot?"

Booth stood next to her, and mimed the shot. "Here…" His finger pointed the angle toward the felt at the base of the cue ball.

Booth gave a couple more tips, but Angela wasn't paying much attention; she was too busy watching her friends. Hodgins now stood near the opposite corner, looking at her over Booth and Brennan's heads. He was applying chalk to his cue stick, and he did it in a rather suggestive manner. Holding the cue upright, he placed a bit of chalk on the tip. He made light grinding motions with it, while his eyes moved from Angela, to Booth and Brennan, and back. He seemed to be saying, 'What do you make of all _this_?'

Then he removed the chalk and blew on the tip of the cue. Angela had found that this was, in fact, the way to apply chalk, and it wasn't just Jack being… a guy. But right now, he knew full well she was enjoying watching her friends, and he was probably trying to make her laugh, and distract them.

Bren was still observing Booth's demonstration, and thinking out loud about the angle and appropriate force.

"Angle of entry?" Hodgins said. "Mm, very important." Angela rolled her eyes, but Booth and Bren ignored him, which was just as well.

Finally Jack decided not to interfere with anything at the pool table, so he put down his stick and came back over to Angela's side. She gave him a dirty look, but he just shrugged and picked up his beer. Then he browsed through his CD collection, to find more music to put on shuffle in the player.

Brennan had tried a couple more jump shots, but gave a grunt of frustration. "Uh, I can't get it." She re-set the balls, staying half bent over. Then she turned her body toward Booth (and Angela), taking one hand away from her cue as if to give it to him, or gesture him closer. "Show me, Booth."

He came up next to her and reached over the stick with one hand, miming the action. "You've almost got it. You know, just this angle and quick tap… Here." Now he snuggled his hips up against her right side, to try to guide the shot.

They both sighted down the cue, and jabbed the ball. But their elbows seemed to interfere with each other, and she protested, "Booth, you're messing up my shot! You're too far to the side."

"All right, all right," he grumbled. "You want me to…?"

"Just show me."

Angela wasn't sure how Booth knew what she meant, or even if Bren knew herself. But he stepped behind her this time, intending to lean very close over her and mirror her movements.

Do they, Angela wondered, know what they're getting into?

Bren repositioned herself, getting comfortable to try another shot. Booth stood right behind her, his hips inches from hers. Their bodies weren't touching yet, Angela saw, but then he started to lean down along her torso, his knee pushing into the back of hers, and his right arm braced on the edge of the table, trapping her under him.

They both froze at the same moment. Because if Booth kept bending in that direction, he might push her into the table.

Angela didn't need anyone to spell it out for her: Anders had trapped Bren like this.

In that second that they both hesitated, emotions flashed over Bren's face. Ones Booth couldn't see, and almost too quick for Angela to identify—her jaw tightened and her eyes went blank. But before the artist could jump up and tell Booth to back off, _now_, it was gone.

Not a flashback, Angela thought, but knowledge. And sadness, on her friend's face: that past events could crop up unexpectedly, that she might never be free of them.

Before Angela or Booth could decide what to do, Bren had blinked that pain away. In its place was what looked like resolve, and (could it be?) humor.

Booth still leaned behind her, unmoving—clearly not sure if continuing or backing off would make the situation worse.

He started to ask, "Um, Bones…?"

But Brennan looked over her shoulder, a slow smile on her lips. When she spoke her voice was low, impatient, and amused. "Shut up and teach me, Booth."

Their eyes met, and Angela swore a spark passed between them. Booth needed only a second, to see that she wasn't scared. And then he needed no more urging. He shifted forward, much closer, and as he did, couldn't help glancing down at Brennan's hips right in front of his. Glancing down, Angela corrected, at her ass in that skirt. Angela was a big fan of that skirt. Its thick brown fabric hugged her in all the right places, and flared along her legs when she moved.

Booth literally swallowed (Angela bit back a laugh), while he gathered his courage or his self control. Then he closed that final inch between them, sandwiching Brennan between himself and the table.

His right arm bent alongside hers, holding the stick, and he arched his left arm over her back, resting along her shoulder. His left foot—his whole leg, really—nestled between hers, their hips closely aligned. And his face was just above hers, so he could murmur instructions in her ear.

Oh, Angela thought, oh yeah. Let's see you make the shot _now_.

It did look like they were awfully distracted by the closeness… but they made an effort anyway. They aimed the cue stick, once, twice, with practice jabs next to the ball.

But who, Angela wondered, was in control? Although Booth held the stick with only one hand, would Brennan have to relax, so she could tell what the shot should feel like? Would she have to submit to him being in charge? That wasn't like Bren at all. But then, she did defer to his skills in certain areas…

Angela felt like holding her breath. She couldn't believe they were doing this, with her as a willing audience. They had to know she was watching, right? I'll just stay as unobtrusive as possible, she told herself, so as not to disturb them. I'll be like a naturalist studying the mating habits of one very attractive pair of creatures.

Booth and Brennan leaned over the table. It didn't look, to Angela, like one was leading and the other following. It looked like they were working together.

"Okay," Booth murmured, "ready?" Now they aimed at the base of the cue ball. Their elbows drew back, then drove forward, hopping the ball over the next one. It wasn't perfect; the ball knocked into the edge of the one it should have jumped.

"Oh," Brennan said, but she didn't sound disappointed. She watched the balls roll a bit, and come to a stop.

Hodgins appeared at Angela's elbow; she hadn't even noticed him. He grinned and said in her ear, "Can I get you some popcorn for the show?"

She put one hand on his cheek and gave him a gentle shove. "Off with you. Silly man." But she picked up her wine glass, so it would look like she was doing something other than being a shameless voyeur.

When Angela turned back, her friends had separated to more discreet distances. Booth held two of the cue sticks, while Bren was rearranging the balls for a different shot.

They seemed a little awkward with each other, but Angela didn't think it was a bad thing. It was more like… they _knew _what had just happened. Maybe they were avoiding eye contact, but that was just your natural buzz, your good old fashioned flood of sexual tension. The point was, no one was rushing away to avoid the issue.

And now they were commenting on the jump shot they'd just done. "It wasn't completely successful," Brennan said, "but it is hard to concentrate, or perform up to standard, when there's another pair of hands on the stick."

Angela almost choked with laughter, and the look on Booth's face. Bren must have done that on purpose… didn't she?

The artist tried to catch her friend's eye, but she was too absorbed in the pool game. Well, Angela resolved, I _will _get the whole story, one way or another. Even if I have to corner Bren in the lab and beg.

Now she contented herself with watching. Booth was giving tips, while Brennan bent over a different side of the table, trying to hit the cue ball off three rails in succession.

Booth, she reflected, was a man who knew how to be patient. He'd had to be, as a sniper. He'd had to lie in wait, in perilous, god-awful locations, until a target came within his sights.

This was a far, far better location. And the target in his sights now was Brennan. (Although she would hate such a comparison.)

Angela leaned against the back of the chair and eyed Booth's jeans and t-shirt. His sexy, mussed hair. His dark eyes following Bren's every move, with that tender, hungry patience.

A moment later Booth looked up, meeting Angela's gaze. She couldn't help flushing a little. Did he know how long she'd been watching? But she raised an eyebrow and glanced toward Brennan, as if to ask, _You sure you know what you're doing, cowboy?_

Booth looked at her for a second, then lifted one shoulder with a lopsided grin. It seemed to say, _Nope, but it makes me happy_. Then he glanced meaningfully toward Brennan, which might have meant, _Ask Bones, it was her idea. _Or maybe, _She always knows what she's doing. I just try to keep up._

Angela nodded to him, thinking, _Be careful. Have fun. Please tell me details._

She was distracted, then, by the song coming through the speakers. It was one of her favorites, with a delicious, spicy beat she always had to dance to. She whirled around, to find Hodgins slouched on the sofa drinking the last of his beer. "Come on, you know what this means!" She pulled him to his feet so they could dance, there in front of the TV. Jack groaned, but laughed, reaching for her waist with one hand.

He glanced over her shoulder toward the pool table and called, "Hey, you two want to join us? There's room."

One of the balls had just thudded into the pocket. "Nice shot, Bones!" She and Booth shared a smile. "No thanks," he told Hodgins. "We're good, right here."

-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I love fiction. A scene that only takes a few seconds can last a few pages, so you can fully (shamelessly? ;) explore all the angles.

The skirt I imagine for Brennan is very like the one she's wearing in the last scene of Man in the Cell. You can't see the much of it, but it's awesome.

Two scenes remaining!


	92. Chapter 92

**A/N: **We don't get to hear much from Brennan in this section. But Booth's thoughts should make up for it. He had a lot to reflect on.

Credit for inspiring this chapter goes to MMWillow13, who thought a scene like this would be fitting: B/B come full circle.

**Part 92**

After pool and dancing, they all collapsed on couches, and Angela chose a movie. She had dimmed the lights, and placed about a dozen candles on the tables and shelves. Then she'd snuggled up with Hodgins on the smaller couch to the left, leaving Booth and Brennan the large one in the center.

Booth didn't find the movie all that memorable, but he did laugh in the appropriate spots, and feel sad in others. Now he noticed how the flickering candles at one side of the couch reflected tiny flames on the TV screen.

Bones had commented, as Angela lit the matches, about television being the new campfire. "We're mesmerized by the light," she'd said. "No matter what the source of that light, it's still about humans telling stories. But the current technological form that we gather around—it's much more passive, when compared with oral tradition."

Tonight, though, she seemed content to sit with friends and watch a story. And somehow, as the movie progressed, she drifted closer to Booth. Close enough that it gave him the chance to use a move tried by many optimistic kids on their first date: the yawn-and-stretch-to-put-your-arm-around-the-girl technique.

Amazingly, it worked. Bones didn't seem to suspect a thing, and after a minute, nestled under his arm like it had been her idea. He sat there enjoying her warmth against his side, her shoulder tucked under his.

Angela, however, saw right through him. From the other couch she gave him a knowing smile, with a quirk to one eyebrow that seemed to say, _I hope the rest of your skills are more sophisticated._

Booth felt too happy to even roll his eyes.

The good food and beer must have gotten to him, though, because halfway through the film, he felt ready to doze off. Ordinarily, sleep would _not _be the main thing on his mind, with Bones' warm body pressed close against him. Especially after that kiss by the pond. But he wasn't going to start dwelling on it, not with Angela and Hodgins right there. Still, the thrill of the evening's activities—and, let's face it, flirting—had settled into contentment.

Booth must have dozed off for some time, because the next thing he knew, he was lifting his head from the back of the sofa. Bones was sleeping on his shoulder, and the other couch was empty.

If he hadn't been so relaxed he might have thought, what the hell? Angela and Hodgins just left us here? So they could… go off and have sex? Or gave us time alone, so _we _could?

Booth glanced at the TV, where soft theme music played. The movie had ended and the credits were rolling.

His neck hurt, from lolling against the back of the couch. And his arm was falling asleep, but he wasn't going to move. Not with Bones sleeping so trustingly.

He tilted his head to look down at her. It was a strange angle, this close: he mainly saw her hair, eyebrows and nose. Her closed eyes, the lashes dark against her fair skin.

If he wanted to, he could rest his head against hers, the way he had in the stairwell after that horrible session with Sweets.

Now Booth imagined he could feel her breath on his arm; and if she woke up, she would feel his on her hair.

The candles next to the couch were burning lower, liquid wax pooling under the wicks. He couldn't have said what scent they gave off, but it reminded him, incongruously, of the hippies they had met camping, and of incense burned in church.

Booth had attended church sporadically since their hostage experience. Because sitting there on the wooden pew, hearing the familiar music and creed, he'd felt anger rather than peace. What he'd wanted was a vengeful God raining wrath upon evildoers, not homilies of charity and forgiveness.

He had still prayed at key moments, briefly and fervently. Before they'd found any good leads on Anders' and Rawling's whereabouts, it had been, _God help me bring these bastards to justice_. (He supposed God could forgive him for cursing, in this case.) Then, when Anders' trial loomed, he had prayed for Caroline to be at the absolute top of her game. For the jury to _listen_, and return the harshest possible verdict.

Now, Booth realized he had still prayed, since the trial, without conscious thought.

_Help us both find peace. _

He looked at Bones beside him. He could see her chest rising and falling as she breathed. She wore that blue t-shirt and brown skirt, her knees just visible past the hem. Booth wished, for one juvenile, heartfelt moment, that he wasn't wearing long pants, so his bare skin could touch hers.

He took a deep breath, and released it. Something inside him felt tender and still. That knot of rage and guilt he'd carried for so long… It might always be there. Whenever he heard the name _Anders. _Whenever Brennan froze, the way she had at the pool table, all her nerves alert. But it hadn't caused a crisis, and she hadn't pushed him away. In fact, she'd smiled, inviting him closer.

They wouldn't forget, of course. But that seed of bitterness and retribution… Its power had dissolved. Right now, he couldn't feel it.

Booth would go to church tomorrow, with Parker. But tonight, he closed his eyes, and sent a quick, impassioned _thank you_.

Then he looked at Bones again. She had one arm resting in her lap, and the other along her leg, partly touching his. As if she'd relaxed in sleep, so her wrist slid down to touch his thigh. He admired her white skin, her arm slightly rotated so that her knuckles brushed his jeans.

They had been here before. Bones, asleep. Booth wondering if he should wake her. That first time at his apartment—he'd touched her arm too suddenly, and a vivid flashback had hit her. She'd jerked awake, disoriented, panting. _The criminals_—_! They were right there._

He'd tried to talk her down and bring her out of it, but she was already coping. Despite the bleakness in her eyes, she'd slowed her breathing, and tried to analyze the situation.

He didn't know what she'd seen the second time, on the plane back from Texas. They'd just watched Rawling threaten hostages, before getting shot himself. Whatever nightmare she'd been having… Booth had felt helpless, and full of doubt. But he'd calmed her with his voice.

Now, there were no restrictions. No criminals to traumatize them. No room full of colleagues warranting discretion.

Booth looked at the flickering, golden candlelight glowing on Brennan's face. He really should wake her, so they could head home. Tomorrow he would pick up Parker, and hear about the birthday party his son had gone to. Then on Monday, he and Bones would keep investigating their case of the man found under a bridge. They would talk science at the lab, Booth playing dumb by habit. Then when they interviewed family or suspects, he would impress Bones with his detective skills. They would argue at the diner, and tease each other in the car. They would talk over paperwork and takeout that he brought to her apartment late at night.

There would be fewer of those weighty silences, or miserable hunched shoulders, when they blamed themselves for the other's pain and guilt.

Things would be easier. Not perfect, but better.

And…

Booth was distracted by Brennan's warmth against him. The curve of her hip and thigh.

They would continue their teamwork, as partners and friends. But she had agreed they could be more.

They would solve cases, balancing emotion and logic, together.

And, sometime down the road, he would make love to her.

_That _was the phrase, Booth told himself. It wouldn't just be sex. Because, with the two of us… what we said at the pond, and how far we've come… we could hardly do otherwise.

_Make love to her. _The thought had him thrumming with anticipation. He wanted to wake Bones this second and ask, how soon did you plan to carry out your 'proposition'? Because I have some suggestions. For example, right now.

But it still seemed, in part, like an awful responsibility. Could he be what she needed? And would it be different, them sleeping together, than it might've been before the assault?

One thing was for sure: Bones would never just lie there passively, waiting for him to act. Waiting for him to please her. Which, he gladly _would_. He would sure as hell be committed to it.

And he didn't think the reverse would be true: she'd tell him just to stand there, while she had her way with him. But—Jesus—that would be something.

No, they would find a middle ground. (Their own joyful, sweaty, delightful middle ground.)

_Give and take, Bones. That's what people do._

_It won't be about biology._ _It'll be… about us._

Now, Booth thought, it's a good thing Hodgins and Angela left. Because if he kept fantasizing like this, he would go from zero to sixty—sleepy to red alert—in much too short a time. _Save that for later, hot shot_.

He reminded himself what he was supposed to be doing. Waking Bones, so they could get home at a decent hour.

It would have been easy to call her name and rouse her. But, he thought, I'm _already _touching her… His right arm curled around her shoulders, but instead of giving her a squeeze, he turned his attention to her arm, resting against his leg. He reached his left arm across, so he could touch her, gently. His fingers hovered near the inside of her elbow, then stroked slowly down to her wrist. Her skin was so very, very soft, there where the tendons and veins ran from forearm to hand. Booth repeated the move: a slow, firm caress. By the third one, she stirred.

Brennan sighed, shifting her shoulders, then raised her head to look at him. Her eyes were still dim and drowsy. "Oh," she said, stating the obvious. "We fell asleep."

"Yeah, and our friends just left us here." He nodded at the empty couch, sounding indignant.

They both straightened up, stretching, and Booth reluctantly withdrew his arm, shaking the feeling back into it so it tingled.

"I saw them go," Bones said. "You had dozed off, and I nearly had, while they were… cuddling over there." (Booth didn't think he'd ever heard her use such a word, and it was incredibly cute. He wanted to point out, '_We _were cuddling too.')

"When I glanced up, they were sneaking out. Angela looked at me, and—she made some gestures and expressions—nonverbal communication that I didn't understand. It involved pointing at you and smiling, and giving me a thumb's up. Whatever that was supposed to mean." But Bones smiled as though she had a pretty good idea.

Rather than come up with a quip, Booth watched her. Because now she glanced at her arm where he'd just touched her.

He remembered the look on her face, after that flashback: a detached kind of horror. She'd found that there were nerves and reflexes beyond her control. There were ugly places inside her that she feared to visit. He knew that dread: memories might seize you unexpectedly, hurting you, or people you cared about.

Tonight, though, they were safe.

Bones turned to him with simple pleasure. "I like that. It's a very nice way to wake up."

"Yeah?" His smile was instinctive, his gaze glinting. "I can think of a few more."

Her eyes were no longer sleepy. They sparkled back at him, crisp, laughing blue. "So can I. I look forward to… sharing them."

-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **I wanted to end this epic on a nice round number of chapters, like 90 or 92. But it looks like 93 will be the magic number. So even if it's short, you get one more!

I find I am too addicted to writing in this fandom, and must start another project. I'm planning a new angsty one… but it needs more work before I could tell you a title.


	93. Chapter 93

**A/N: **I didn't know this chapter was going to happen. I almost didn't want B/B to have this conversation, because I wasn't sure where it would lead, and because so many other writers have done their version of it. But, you know Brennan, always asking and analyzing. It didn't seem right to censor her.

**Part 93**

Before they went back upstairs, Booth returned the DVD to its box, while Bones blew out the candles.

He turned from the bookshelves and watched her, leaning over the end table. He could smell the smoke curling toward the ceiling, and see the pinprick ends of the wicks glowing orange, before they sputtered and died.

I wonder if I could ask her to wear that skirt, he mused, whenever we have sex. Just so I can help her take it off.

When Bones straightened up, however, she had a little worry wrinkle in the center of her forehead. She glanced at him, but then distracted herself by taking the empty wine glasses over to the kitchen alcove.

Booth waited, while she rinsed them at the sink. But when she started looking around for something else to tidy, he followed her. He leaned against the fridge and said, "Bones."

She'd been fidgeting with a dish towel, but set it down and turned to him.

"You're thinking awfully hard about something."

"Am I that obvious?"

He smiled. "Sometimes."

She sighed, putting her hands on the back of a chair next to a small café table. Behind her, a window set high on the wall showed nothing but grass and a wedge of night sky.

"I said that I hadn't had time to analyze any of this," Bones began, "about our… agreement."

"You mean us sleeping together?" He couldn't stop grinning, every time he said it.

She nodded. "But some questions have occurred to me anyway."

"Just in the last few hours? Part of which we spent sleeping?"

She didn't respond to his teasing, but squared her shoulders in a way that made _him _start to worry. "I need to ask you… If we're planning to have sex… Does that mean, for you, that we'd be in a romantic relationship? Or conversely, do you require that we define it as a relationship _before _having sex?"

Booth opened his mouth, then closed it. "Do I _require that we define it_? Boy, you weren't kidding when you said analyze."

She shifted her weight anxiously back and forth, waiting for his response.

"I don't think there's a simple yes-or-no answer to that question, Bones."

Now her expression looked frustrated, but there was a trace of fear: that she'd gotten them into more than they could handle. "What kind of answer," she said carefully, "would you give?"

"Well, for one thing, there's not really a checklist of qualifications for a romantic relationship."

"Maybe there should be," she said. "It would make things a lot easier."

He laughed despite himself. "I guess it would. But…" He glanced around the kitchen as if searching for an excuse. "Isn't it kind of late at night for all this?"

Bones considered him. "Your hesitation suggests that this _would _mean a romantic relationship for you, but you don't want to state it as such, because… Because of me."

Booth took a step forward, until they stood over the little table together. "Okay," he said. "Look. I'm not going to dive right in and ask you for the whole nine yards. We're not going to buy a house together and get a dog and start sharing toothbrushes. That wouldn't be right for either of us right now. And I won't talk about a committed monogamous relationship—but I hope you're not planning to date or sleep with other men while you're with me."

The fear in her eyes had gotten a lot stronger, but her voice was steady. "No, I wouldn't do that."

"Okay," he said. "But my point is… You deserve an honest answer. So—yeah. It would mean a relationship to me."

Now her voice was tight. "I thought this would be simple. But maybe it's too complicated." Her shoulders hunched up, and she looked ready to back away from him.

He spoke softly. "Why, Bones?"

"We were just going to add one aspect to our relationship. We were just going to keep doing what we've been doing, except sometimes, we would have sex."

He sighed, resigning himself that they would hash this out, right here. "That's basically true. But what have we been doing already, if not having some sort of relationship? I mean, what are we to each other? Literally, right now?"

"Partners," she said. "Friends."

"Right, so… we already have a relatively close and meaningful relationship. And now we'd be adding some meaningful sex to the mix." He had to smile, but asked, "That wouldn't be a relationship to _you_, Bones?"

"I don't know." She tried to return his smile, but her voice was strained and uncertain. "I don't want things to change. I'm afraid that we… That eventually I'll—or that you'll—"

_That I'll mess things up? That you'll realize I'm not good enough?_

Booth couldn't be sure what she meant, but he reached out and took her hand. She let him free it from its death grip on the back of the chair, then turn her palm over, tracing lines across it with his fingers. He didn't speak for several moments, just watching her until she seemed more calm.

"You're only doing that," she said, "to trigger a release of chemicals to make me more docile and susceptible to your charms."

"You," he chuckled, "docile? Never." Booth hadn't consciously planned this strategy, but he could see that it was working: the tension had left her voice, and she wasn't pulling her hand away.

"You're wrong, Bones," he said softly. "I'm doing this…" He held her hand between both of his. "…Because you're worried. And I don't want you to be worried." He stroked her palm again, feeling the lines and creases in her skin.

She seemed to accept that reason, and withdrew her hand. Gradually, so it felt like gratitude, rather than rejection.

Then Booth turned one of the chairs around and sat down, resting his arms on the back of it. After a second, Bones copied him. She straddled the other chair, despite the fact she was wearing a skirt, and he tried to avoid peering at how much skin she'd just revealed.

"So, you don't want things to change." He brought out his best reassuring tone. "Nothing has to, if we don't want it to. But look at what we've already been doing, Bones. I mean, what were we just doing on the couch there? _Cuddling_?" That got a grudging smile. "And at the pool table? What would you call that, huh?" Now a grin tugged at his mouth. "Innocent physics lesson? Actual flirting, or—"

"Foreplay?" Her smile almost made him breathless. But he couldn't let himself get off track.

"What have we been doing at the diner," he said, "at your office, or my apartment? We get meals together, we do paperwork, we talk about—I don't know—everything, whether life and death cases, or…"

"Things that are completely frivolous? Like how to skip rocks?"

"Yeah. You got it."

"All right. I see your point. We already do all of that. But…" Bones was frowning, her eyes searching his face. "I don't want you to have to compromise your principles. I don't want it to feel… like I'm withholding a full relationship. The full emotions or commitment that you deserve."

"Bones…" The look in her eyes was breaking his heart. "I don't want you to think you have to change for me. And don't let _anyone_," he leaned closer, "tell you that you don't have the 'full emotions.' Because I know you do."

She blinked at him, her eyes shining more than they had a moment ago.

We're protecting each other, he thought. We both have our doubts. But we also have the other's best interests at heart.

"So," he said, "no drastic changes. Because we like each other just the way we are. Don't we?"

"Yes. We do. _Except… _that you snore when you're asleep."

"What! No, I don't. That was just the couch, it doesn't count."

Now she started to laugh. "You don't snore, Booth. I was teasing you."

"Okay," he groaned, "pretty good. You nearly had me for a second."

"But you did say…" Her expression turned grave. "By the pond, you said you're not looking for something more traditional. You were serious? You weren't joking?

"I wasn't joking." _Because I'd rather have a non-traditional romance with you, than a cookie cutter one with someone else. _But maybe that was one sentiment he could save for later.

"What about you, Bones? Are you sure you want to stick by your… proposal?" He raised his brows at her. "You sure I'm not too much for you to handle?"

"Now you're just being arrogant." She poked him on the arm. "But if you want a serious answer… No, I don't want to take it back."

He didn't have a chance to gloat, because she went on. "And you're right. Neither of us should have to change dramatically. Not more than we already have, anyway. We've both learned and adapted, to work together. And today we compromised on my proposal, yet without compromising our beliefs."

"Wait, what? We compromised but we didn't?"

"Because _compromise _has two meanings, one positive and one negative. To slightly modify one's position to reach an agreement, _or_ to taint something and open it to disrepute."

"Disrepute," Booth echoed. "I'll say this, Bones. You have the best late-night vocabulary I've ever heard."

"I should think my vocabulary is well above average, no matter what time of day it is."

He grinned at that Bones-ism, but she was still summarizing her position. "The compromise was, you agreed to go along with my idea, and I agreed… to try it your way."

He tapped his hands on the table in front of him. "_It_, Bones? Was that a euphemism? _Do it my way_?"

She refused to lose her cool while he baited her. "Not euphemism. Just concise, colloquial language.

"Booth, while we're on the topic of compromise… I think we should re-evaluate at other key moments in the future. To make sure we're both still content with our relationship. That we're not compromising in a negative sense."

"Okay…" he said. "You mean we should just keep talking about stuff."

"Essentially, yes. Because I find that as unsettling as it may be to discuss non-quantifiable things like emotion, talking things over is usually better than not talking about them."

"I'm glad to hear that. And I happen to agree. Now…" He pushed himself to his feet, reaching for her arm. "It's late. Let's get out of here before we think of some other giant personal question to explore."

-.-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N: **STILL NOT THE END. One more chapter and I swear that's it. Also, Booth's last line? Totally my thoughts about this section. Hope it wasn't too obvious.


	94. Chapter 94

**A/N: **Yes, this really is the last chapter. It was just supposed to be a brief cap to the story, but B/B wouldn't stop talking. There was more teasing, and a bit more angst, than I had predicted.

This story has been quite an adventure for me, and hopefully for you. Everyone who got to the end, you deserve an award! Thank you for reading.

**Part 94**

They went back upstairs to say goodnight to their friends. In the living room, Hodgins napped on the sofa while Angela perched on the arm, sketching.

She put down her pencil when she saw them, and her mouth curved into a slow smile. "Did you two have fun?"

Booth, standing where the carpet met the hallway, saw Bones roll her eyes at her friend's expression. "Nothing happened, Ange. We dozed off and missed the end of the movie. We talked."

"Uh huh." The artist looked unconvinced. Then she poked Hodgins to make sure he was awake, and sent him to retrieve their coats. Booth saw him yawning, and couldn't help doing the same.

Putting down her sketchpad, Angela latched herself onto Brennan's arm. She spoke in an undertone, but Booth could make it out.

"I know there's something different about you two, and you have to _swear _to tell me everything."

Booth took his jacket from Hodgins, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

"But, Sweetie," Angela whispered, "I'm so proud of you."

Bones looked like she might ask for clarification, so Booth stepped in. He took her other arm and gently tugged her out of Angela's grasp. Then he handed Brennan her coat as they started for the door.

There was a little flurry of conversation, while they thanked their hosts, mentioned future plans, and laughed over the pool game and scientific articles.

Outside, Booth and Brennan paused on the front step. Angela was clinging to Hodgins' arm and smiling like a maniac. The pair made a pretty picture, silhouetted in the doorway.

"Drive safe," Hodgins said. "See you Monday."

"Goodnight," Angela called. "Sweet dreams!"

Booth and Brennan walked down the gravel driveway in the direction of his car. The night had turned cold, and their breath puffed into the air. The sprawling mansion was on their right, with the grounds stretching away to the left. Little hooded lights lined the driveway, so the night was shadowy but not too dark.

Bones said, "Angela must think we're going home together to have sex."

Booth started to cough, but it ended up as laughter. Rather than tell Bones, 'That's a good idea, actually,' he said, "Maybe she thinks we're going to run off and elope."

"What?" A hint of panic crossed her face. "You and Angela both know my views on marriage, so that..." Then she saw his expression. "Oh. You're joking again. Well, I won't deny I've thought about sex a great deal today. And if that _is_ what Angela thought… Going home to sleep together was part of our arrangement. We just hadn't decided on the specifics yet."

"God, Bones. You make it sound like treaty negotiations."

"No," she said with a naughty smile, "I'm sure the reality will be far more enjoyable."

He grinned back, then saw her shiver a little in her skirt and jacket. She peered into the darkness ahead. "How far away did you park?"

"Um, a ways." He thought she would needle him about it, but she seemed to have something else on her mind.

Now they walked past trees on the right, and a little white gazebo on the left. Angela had said it was an ideal place for doing artwork.

"There's one other thing, Booth. A possible complication to our… relationship."

Oh Lord, he thought. _Another _one?

"What about the FBI?" she asked. "Will they split us up, if we become physically intimate?"

"Cut right to the chase there, Bones."

"Because you know we're not supposed to fraternize, if we're working together."

Booth sighed.

"I don't think Cullen has ever liked me," Bones went on. "But wasn't he worried for a while, that it was too hard for us to work together because we couldn't move past what happened? It would be rather ironic now, if he reassigned us for the opposite reason—we moved past it _so _well that we started sleeping together."

"Well," Booth pointed out, "there's _socialize _and then there's _fraternize_. The FBI's not going to police who we're hanging out with in our spare time. But we did just agree to cross that line… into fraternize. As un-sexy a word as that may be." He winked.

Then he put his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them warm. "People have slightly different interpretations, depending on where you work. There's actually plenty of dating going on. Hell, agents even get married, although maybe not ones who are going out in the field together, arresting murderers.

"I think the idea is, as long as the two people aren't involved in a supervisory relationship at work. Because the Bureau, like anywhere, is more scared of sexual harassment charges, especially if the relationship falls apart. So, basically… I'd say it's up to our own discretion."

Brennan's cheeks had turned pink in the cold. "We wouldn't have to come forward," she asked, "to Cullen or Sweets, and register some type of relationship? Even if, as we said, it's a non-traditional one."

"Let me tell you something about Cullen, Bones. My take on him—he has a sort of _don't ask don't tell _policy about people's personal lives. You know the FBI has a very healthy rumor mill running at all times. And what it's been saying, probably since we first met, is that we're already sleeping together."

Bones wore a skeptical expression, but she half nodded, as if deciding the evidence wasn't outlandish, for outsiders to draw that conclusion.

"And Cullen…" Booth grimaced. "He asked me flat out, once."

"If we were having intercourse?"

He winced again. "Yeah. It wasn't long after we started working together. He must have heard the initial rumors, and one time I was in his office, he just… asked. It was awkward as hell, and I could tell he didn't want to be there asking, and I didn't want to be there answering. But I just told him the truth. And he never asked again after that, although I'm sure he's heard more rumors."

"So, what you're saying is, he doesn't care?"

"Well, he doesn't care, as long as our ability to do our jobs isn't compromised. He's actually a little like you, Bones. He won't act on rumor, only direct knowledge. So, as long as we don't start making out in the middle of my office, or the Jeffersonian lab platform…"

She gave him a 'That would never happen' look. But now her footsteps were slowing, and she was clearly pondering something. Not the idea of them making out—it looked much more serious. And that made him uneasy.

"For a while, my ability to do my job _was _compromised. And I wasn't sure we could keep working together." Her voice had that raspy, vulnerable edge he'd come to recognize—and dread. "Because… Because of what you saw. When I came out of that room with them…" She gave an involuntary shudder. "I felt so—I couldn't—"

They both stopped, next to a large fir tree. Bones stared at the ground, where one of those knee-high lights sat between the tree and the driveway.

"You saw that," she said. "I didn't realize how much you saw, until I heard your testimony. And after something like that that…"

She kept her eyes on the circle of light glowing on the edge of the drive, illuminating the lowest pine branches. They both had their hands in their pockets, but Booth wanted to hold hers in his. He wanted to tell her, 'You don't have to think about that anymore. It's over and done with.' But he didn't.

"I thought," Brennan said, "how could you look at me and… How could you think that I was strong enough to back you up in the field?"

Booth opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it.

"I know that's not true, now. I was being too negative. I was over-reacting. But for a while, that's how it felt."

He remembered watching her, after Anders had left her tied to that table the second time. He and Rawling had been talking on phones, collecting bags… And even though Booth should have been alert to any threats they still posed, he couldn't see anything but Brennan. She'd stood there, hands resting gingerly on the table, elbows close against her sides to protect her ribs. She'd stared down at the rope around her wrists. And she'd shivered.

It had barely been discernible: a tiny, continual shaking, like a drenched cat. And it was possible Booth had imagined it, with that chemical fucking up his senses. But he didn't think so.

Now he pulled his jacket closer around his neck, swallowing the tightness in his throat.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to work with you either, you know. Because I was so obsessed with my own guilt. I thought Sweets was going to have to…" He gave her a weak, crooked smile. "I don't know, put me in a padded room with some teddy bears and make me watch Dr. Phil until I…"

"I don't know who that is, but I would guess from your tone that he's not a highly respected medical doctor."

"No, Bones. You're right about that."

"So." She started walking again, and he fell into step. "What we could take from this, is that we both persevered in the face of emotional challenges." She looked to him for agreement.

"Persevere." He nodded. "Conquer all challenges. Because, you and me?" Now he grinned." We're unstoppable."

She laughed softly, and then Booth felt her slip her hand into his. She held it, as they walked along. Her skin was smooth and cool in the night air, and that simple gesture made his chest feel wonderfully warm.

He caught her eye, and smiled, swinging their hands back and forth. "What's this, Bones? No speech about the cultural significance of holding hands? Like, how it originated as a romantic declaration between two people? Or what it means in this country versus other countries?"

She smiled too, then shrugged. "No, no speech. Because I find that in certain cases, actions are preferable to words."

"Oh…" He squeezed her hand. "I'm with you there, baby."

Her eyes told him she objected to that term, but perhaps only in principle, not in actual practice.

They kept walking. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and somewhere off the property, a dog barked.

"Booth, _where _is your car?"

He jerked his chin at the trees in front of them. "Yeah, it's still up a ways."

"But we must have walked nearly half a mile already. Why did you park so far away?"

"Give me a break, okay? I've never been here before. That carriage house thing looked like the right place to park at the time. And, some advice, Bones? It's really more fun if you exaggerate and say, 'We must have walked ten miles by now.'"

"But I didn't want to exaggerate. I gave an accurate estimation."

"Of course you did." Then Booth saw a scrawny little tree that he recognized from when he'd arrived. "There," he pointed it out, "the car's not much further than that."

She made a disapproving sound in her throat.

"What?" he teased, "are you telling me you're averse to a little walking, on a fine night like this?"

"Of course I'm not averse to a _little _walking…"

"Especially with those perfectly evolved feet you were telling all of us about? You know, their rigid anatomical structure, that lets them work as effective levers?"

"You were listening," she said with some surprise.

He gave her one of his best, flattering smiles. "Every word."

Bones looked impressed, possibly wondering whether their new quasi-couple status had enabled him to better understand science.

"Okay," he said, "maybe not _every _word. I could have zoned out there for a minute… Hey!" She'd taken her free hand and smacked him on the arm. "You've been doing that a lot lately, Bones. If I were Sweets, I'd say it really meant something."

She shook her head at him. "Actions speak louder than words, buster."

Before he could tease her about _that _word choice, she became serious again.

"We got off track, from the FBI's policy. You were saying that Cullen probably won't meddle in our personal lives, as long as we don't allow it to interfere with our work."

"Yeah…"

"But he isn't your only superior within the FBI. There could be someone else with a different interpretation of the policies, and in that case…"

"Yeah," Booth said again, "but I'm honestly not that worried about it. Look at us, Bones. After what we've done, I think we can handle some pencil-pushing bureaucrats. I mean, we took on two armed felons all by ourselves, and we came out okay in the end. Those guys who tried to get the better of us? One's dead and the other's rotting in jail. Whereas we…" Booth tilted his head back. "We have this cold starry evening all to ourselves."

"It's not all that starry," Bones qualified. "We're too close to light pollution from the city." Then she looked at him with a slight frown, a sort of wry appreciation for what he'd just said. "When did you become a romantic?"

"I've always been one. I just hide it well. But you… have you always been such a pessimist? I mean, this is getting to be a pattern. It's like you're looking for obstacles for the two of us, and I'm the one who has to go around counteracting and reassuring."

"I'm not _looking _for obstacles. I'm recognizing them. I'm being realistic."

"Ah. A realist, that's right."

Brennan was quiet for a moment. "When Angela has tried to push us together, she's said, 'Opposites attract.' And something about us being 'classic.' Which I assume means the pairing of scientist and cop. Or realist and romantic. Although I dislike labels and overly generalized categories, many of our traits do seem to complement each other."

"Hasn't Sweets tried to tell us the same thing? Maybe he's in on it with Angela. But I like how you think, Bones. And right now, I am glad to be the non-rational, 'let's just do it' type of person."

"Let's just do it?" She started to smile, caught up in his enthusiasm. "Without regard for your boss, or policy, or bureaucratic institutions of any kind?"

"Absolutely. Screw Cullen, right? Don't worry about him. He's too concerned with solving cases. He's not going to mess with us."

"It does seem that he restrains some of his dictatorial impulses in regard to our partnership. We might have more latitude, because he doesn't want to jeopardize our good solve rate."

"You're right, Bones. In fact… I bet he'd be so glad we've worked things out, that he could actually find us in bed together and just say, 'Good, you've resolved your differences. Here's your next case.'"

Brennan raised her eyebrows, her voice touched with laughter. "You're suggesting that your boss would come to your apartment and burst into your bedroom, and if we were there having sex, he would actually…"

She broke off, laughing in earnest. It was such a full-throated sound of amusement and delight, Booth had to join in. He didn't know if it was purely from that image he'd put in her head… but it didn't matter. (He looked forward to making some of those images reality.)

It was too dark to see the details of Bones' expression, between the moonlight and the little driveway lanterns. But her face was so open and happy, the corners of her eyes crinkling with laughter, and Booth thought he could look at her forever.

She swung their joined hands, as they walked under arching tree branches. Neither could stop laughing, and it wasn't even about Booth's comment anymore. It was just… them. Delighting in each other and the clear night air and the possibilities they had to explore.

Brennan bumped her shoulder against his, still beaming. As they walked down the path, Booth nudged her right back.

He savored the sound of her laughter. It was like water, bubbling up from underground. Like joy.

-.-.-.-.-.

**A/N (and shameless self-promotion) **— Those final lines (Booth savoring her laughter) were ones I'd thought of months ago, so it was good to have something to work toward.

This story has been an amazing process. I learned a lot, not just from the research, but about myself as a writer. Now I'm supposed to start an original novel, but I'm too obsessed with B/B. So, stay tuned for another story in a few weeks, that will be a combination "fixing season 6" and "partner in peril." In the meantime, allow me to suggest that you revisit parts of this story, because I believe its quantity and quality hold up to re-readings. Or, for something shorter, try my one-shot, Surgery.


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